


Donare, Indulgere, Spondere

by AuditoryCheesecake, uniqueinalltheworld



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Advent Calendar, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Gift Giving, M/M, Mild Plot Elements, Themed Drabble Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 23,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8722711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld
Summary: Dorian Pavus gives the best gifts in the Inquisition. The Best. Everyone else's gifts are terrible. As Wintersend approaches, Dorian learns that terrible isn't always bad.





	1. The Feather

“And how, exactly, do you know that feather belonged to a griffon?” Dorian had been in high dudgeon all day. He’d been rudely awakened when something in his tent came loose and collapsed, letting in all the cold rain that it hadn’t even been doing a decent job of keeping out. Then, the smoke from the morning fire, heavy and black since all the wood was wet, kept blowing into his face no matter how many times he moved upwind of it. And _then,_ the Iron _fucking_ Bull had called his robes a _skirt_ , and Dorian had turned around to reprimand him, and slipped on the wet rocks. 

It was a miracle he hadn’t broken any bones. He landed muddy and bruised at the bottom of the cliff, robes a little torn, dignity utterly destroyed.

His only consolation had been the way Bull hurried down the hill to check on him, nearly falling on his own ass, and his apparently genuine contrition. It had been some time since Dorian had been fussed over the way he deserved.

But now, _now_ , they had climbed yet another Maker-forsaken bluff, indistinguishable from every other wet, awful hill on the blasted, literally Blighted Storm Coast, to find _this._ A _feather_.

“We know this was a Warden camp, right?” Adaar tucked the moldy thing into a pocket and patted it fondly. “It stands to reason.”

“We know no such thing,” Dorian groused. “These letters are half rotted away! I suppose these tents _might_ have been blue once, or gray, or whatever color suits your fancy.”

“Do you think Blackwall will like it?” She started ruffling around in the embers of the cold firepit, maybe for the claw of an archdemon, or some other equally unlikely bit of Warden paraphernalia with which to convey her affections.

Dorian huddled under a scrawny tree and sharpened his glare. “I think he’s going to be all passive aggressive about you not bringing him along to find it.”

“But will he like it?” She repeated, unconcerned. Dorian heaved his most long-suffering sigh.

Bull, kneeling in the mud beside her, grinned. “He will, Boss. It’s a thoughtful gift.”

Dorian didn’t even have anyone to exchange a derisive glance with. Cole had hared off somewhere, and wouldn’t understand his frustration, anyways.

It was sort of sweet. In a cold, rain-soaked, seasick way. He shifted so that he couldn’t see the pounding waves. He hated this place.

He hated the misty rain, and the seeping cold, and the way Iron Bull climbed slowly to his feet and smiled fondly down at Adaar, as if he were some kindly older brother. Mostly, though, he hated that he didn’t have anyone tracking down useless artifacts for _him._ He’d never admit to such a thing, of course. 

It wasn’t that he was lonely in the South, per se. It was merely that, well, when one abandoned their homeland and left all of their friends behind, one could sometimes feel a bit... isolated. And, of course, when one abandoned their homeland and left all of their friends behind in an effort to be one’s authentic self and find genuine love and acceptance and romantic relationships with one’s own gender, one generally hoped that one would, well, actually _do_ that.

“The wind’s picking up,” Bull observed. He looked out at the churning waters of the Waking Sea and then at Dorian. “We should get back into the hills before there’s a storm. That one there already looks like a drowned cat.”

Dorian scowled harder as the tree dripped water on him, in addition to the rain being driven under the branches by the wind. “I do _not_ ,” he growled.

“Good idea.” Adaar said sunnily. “And yes, you do.”

“Come on, Vint.” Bull grinned. “If you can hold off on the techiness until we’re at the camp, I’ll give you some of my cocoa.”


	2. The Hat

Dorian made a point of being near the stables when Adaar presented Blackwall with her find. She looked so nervous, he half expected her to bow when she handed it over. But she stuttered through some sort of sentence, and shoved the feather into his hands.

Dorian was too far away to hear whatever Blackwall said as she fled, but he sauntered over to lean against the wall once she was gone. Blackwall, apparently oblivious to Dorian’s presence, slid the moldy feather into a pocket much the same way Adaar had days before.

Then, he took it back out and brushed the tatty thing with a careful finger, like it was made of glass, and sighed heavily over it, like a maiden in a tragic play.

“Really?” Dorian asked, startling him. “You look like you’re about to burst into tears over a _feather_.”

Blackwall coughed, and hid it from Dorian’s sight. “That’s none of your business,” he said gruffly. He said everything gruffly, to be honest.

“You could at least conserve your dramatic brooding for truly momentous occasions. If she found a Blessed Age Warden helmet or something.”

Blackwall glowered at him. “That she thought of me at all is an honor.” He sounded like he was reciting from some dreadful, staid novel about chivalry. “She shouldn’t go to any trouble looking for these things, but she does. I’ll thank you not to mock the Lady Inquisitor, Dorian.”

“It’s not really her I’m mocking,” Dorian responded. “Or at least, not her alone. Aren’t all the griffons dead? How would you even know that belonged to one? It could be from a particularly large seabird, for all anyone knows.”

“If she says it’s a griffon feather, then it’s griffon enough for me.”

“Oh please.” Dorian rolled his eyes. “Have some standards, Gordon. For verifying the authenticity of historical artifacts, at the very least.”

Blackwall took a step towards him, expression thunderous. Dorian squared his shoulders and raised his chin, ready for yet another argument. Baiting the Warden was simply too easy.

Sera barreled into the barn at that moment, clothes dirtier than usual, hair in total disarray. She barely paused to greet them before she scrambled up the stairs and started banging around in the loft.

Dorian and Blackwall looked at each other, and when neither seemed able to provide an answer, they followed her cautiously upwards. 

“Have either of you seen any charcoal about?” she called over her shoulder, and pried open a crate. 

“In the stable?” Dorian asked. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, it was worth checking, wasn’t it?” She sighed and sat back on her heels. “What about opals? Do you have any on you?”

“No,” Blackwall said shortly. “What’s this about?”

“Well, I made Widdle a hat, for a gift, because, y’know, _gifts_. But’s awful. I need to make a better present.”

“Out of charcoal and opals?” Dorian couldn’t help how incredulous he sounded, even though Sera groaned and tipped over to lay on her back.

“I know, alright? It’s all awful. Everything. All the ideas, everything.”

“No, it’s not all bad,” Blackwall, damn him, sounded comforting. He went and sat next to her. “We’ll help. Dorian’s good at this sort of thing, aren’t you?”

Dorian barely realized that any of that had been directed towards him. “Of course,” he said, after too long a hesitation. “I’m very good at this sort of thing. Have you considered getting her… a hammer?”

“She has so _many_ hammers already,” Sera whined. “And they’re all fancy weird hammers with points and claws and, and stuff. She doesn’t want a _hammer_.”

“What about the hat?” Blackwall offered. “Could you embroider something on it?”

“Hat’s out,” she said fiercely. “It’s bad, it’s ugly, it’s stupid. I shouldn’t have tried.”

Dorian sat down next to them. “That’s a terribly defeatist attitude. Surely there’s something redeemable about it.”

“I could set it on fire and toast a sausage over it, maybe for a minute. Wouldn’t even be good for that. Goes up too fast.”

“Well if it’s that terrible, you ought to just fill it with apples, draw Corypheus’s face on it, and toss it into the courtyard with a bunch of sticks,” Dorian snipped.

Sera looked at him like he had just handed her the key to Empress Celene’s silver cabinet. “That’s brilliant. Beardy's right. You’re brilliant. She’d love that.” She punched Dorian in the arm and sprang into action.

“I was--” Dorian winced at the impact “--just joking, really.” But by the time he finished, Sera was long gone. 

Dorian couldn’t be certain, but it looked like Blackwall was smirking as he settled the feather gently in a place of honor on his workbench.


	3. The Flowers

Dorian currently held a very low estimation of everyone in Skyhold. He himself was not exempt from this, but everyone else was definitely worse.

He heard the clatter that heralded the return of the Bull’s Chargers, illustrious leader in tow. It was not something he had been listening for, exactly, but when a group was that loud, and one happened to be standing near the courtyard, one was bound to overhear. And if one were already in the courtyard, one might as well go and greet the returning mercenary band. 

Bull saw him, and waved one hand in greeting. His other arm was wrapped tightly around Cremisius’s shoulder as if to prevent his escape. Dorian paused in his totally aimless wander towards Bull in order to get a better view. 

Krem, apparently sturdier than he looked, didn’t even stumble when Bull gave him a genial shove in Scout Harding’s direction. He held a fistful of dragonthorn flowers in front of him like a shield. A sort of limp, scraggly shield that someone who was perhaps a bit nervous had squeezed too tightly in his fist on the ride up. 

“Watch,” Bull whispered loudly to Dorian. “This is gonna be great.”

“Hello, Krem,” Harding said cheerfully. “What have you got there?”

Dorian fancied that he could see Krem’s legs tremble as he stammered slightly. “I er, brought you...these flowers. Because they’re, I mean you’re... uh, here.” He thrust the dragonthorn into her hands.

“Does Cremisius know that dragonthorn is poisonous?” Dorian asked Bull in a low voice.

“No, but I do.” Bull bounced on his toes with barely contained glee. He grabbed Dorian’s shoulder. “Wait for it.”

“For what?” Dorian asked, steadfastly ignoring how warm Bull’s hand was. 

Bull shrugged. “We’ll see, I guess, but it’s gonna be great.” 

Harding examined the flowers with a small frown, then lit up like one of Sera’s lightning flasks. “Dragonthorn! I was just telling Charter the other day that I needed some. It makes great poisons! Thank you so much! You’re so thoughtful.”

“Poisons,” Krem repeated. “Yes, of course. That’s why I got them for you.”

“Very thoughtful,” Dorian commented to Bull. 

Bull laughed. “Yeah I think ‘thinking’ was definitely what Krem-puff was doing when he picked those. At least he rinsed the blood off where he pricked himself on them first.” 

“Thank the Maker for small mercies, then.”

“Nah, I had to remind him to.” 

“Forgive me for casting aspersions on the effectiveness of your men, Bull, but how has he survived so long in the wild?”

“Eh,” Bull shrugged. “It’s pretty girls that throw him off the most. In mercenary work, it’s like ninety percent scarred up dudes. He does fine around those.” 

“How unfortunate for you all,” Dorian said, trying not to gaze too wistfully into middle distance. 

“This should be enough for a decent batch,” Harding said. “Did you happen to see any rashvine while you were out today? That would really add an extra kick.”

Krem rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure? You might have to remind me what that looks like.”

Harding brightened further. “I think Lady Adaar has some growing in the garden, if you have time now.”

“I do!” Krem said quickly, then cleared his throat. “I mean, have some, uh, time now. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Harding laughed and led him away, assuring him that it wasn’t. Dorian and Bull watched fondly as they each tried to hold a door open for the other.

“Ah, young love,” Dorian remarked dryly. “All you need is a pointless gift and naive hope, and that’s enough to get your foot in the door. So to speak.” 

Bull snorted. “Pity it doesn’t work that way when you’re older,” he said. 

“Quite.” Dorian paused. “By the way, I received a shipment of cocoa today, if you’d allow me to return the favor you did me on the Storm Coast. Beware the spice cakes though, the Fereldan merchant I got them from swore they had a powerful kick.” 

“We’d better be careful then,” Bull said, grinning. “Lead the way.”


	4. The Special Delievery

Dorian liked his tavern crowded, his bedroom warm, and his library quiet. The Inquisition was often too busy for the first, and Skyhold was always too cold for the second. The third, however, he generally found to be tolerable. He shared the place with those ravens, of course, but if one imagined that they were some sort of quaint ambient noise makers popular in the South, they could be ignored with practice.

But this. This was unacceptable. He’d been aware of some commotion in the yard earlier, but it had subsided shortly after Leliana had descended the stairs. Dorian had assumed it to be the return of some scout, or perhaps Lady Josephine had stumbled and stubbed her toe. In any case, he was sure that Leliana had it all well in hand.

She did not. _It_ was physically too large for her to have in hand, as _it_ was three monstrous wooden crates. Each was attended by at least two scouts, who grunted and cursed as they heaved their cargo up the winding stairs of the library. 

They were followed by the Nightingale herself, Lady Josephine, and the Iron Bull, who was carrying another box, diminutive by comparison, on his own. Dorian tried to communicate his dismay and confusion to Bull using just his eyes, as Leliana’s retinue navigated the hairpin turn at the top of the first set of stairs.

Bull set his box carefully beside Dorian’s books. It was a handsome thing, when Dorian examined it. Sturdy reddish wood, polished to a respectable shine. The lid bore a stylized image of a bird, presumably a nightingale, though Dorian was no ornithologist. He did recognize the gold leaf that adorned its beak and lined its feathers, the small sapphires that were its eyes, the maker’s crest stamped in the corner. It was a thing of great beauty, and greater expense.

“Who sent this?” he asked Bull in an awed whisper.

Bull shrugged. “My plan was to follow her upstairs and hope she let something slip.”

Dorian nodded approvingly. “I believe I shall join you. I do have a letter to send, after all.”

He wasn’t even lying. He addressed it hurriedly to Mae, and by the time he had it folded and sealed Bull was gone already. Dorian waited at the foot of the stairs for the last of the scouts to scurry away again, and then ascended carefully. 

“Dorian!” Leliana called as soon as he appeared. “Come see!” There was a note of joy in her voice that reminded him strangely of how she had sounded at Halamshiral: years younger, lives lighter, as if the Game were her natural and preferred habitat. This was not quite the same tone, it was happier still. For the first time, Dorian wished he knew how to ask her to sing.

He went to look.

The crates were full of shoes. An impossible number of pairs of shoes. There were soft slippers made from plush green velvet, that Dorian couldn’t imagine wearing outside of a bedroom. There were solid, heavy leather boots with dragonbone caps over the toes, and silverite studs all along the eyelets. One pair of dancing shoes had heels made entirely of Serault glass.

“Leliana,” Dorian asked softly, a little awed, “Where did these _come_ from?”

“That’s not even the best part,” she told him conspiratorially. Her hand rested on the smaller box. “This is.”

Dorian wasn’t sure that he was prepared. When the box slid open--soundlessly, he noted, though at this point he expected nothing less--he was certain he had not been. There, resting on a velvet cushion as one might package a relic of Andraste, was a dagger. 

Not just any dagger, mind, this one was short, crude, and very, very sharp. The metal’s quality was difficult to determine underneath what Dorian could only assume (hope?) was dried blood.

“This,” Leliana caressed the dagger’s hilt with one finger, “is the dagger that killed Lady Catalina Westwood.”

“That woman who was bothering you by killing all your spies?” Bull asked from beside Dorian.

“Not anymore.” This. This was the reason Dorian didn’t ask Leliana to sing. 

“Is it a threat?” he asked weakly.

“It’s a gift,” she corrected. “And the shoes are an apology for that chip in the blade.”

“Is the blade really worth this many--” 

Leliana narrowed her eyes slightly. 

“An extravagant gesture, to be sure.” Dorian finished. 

“My love is an extravagant woman,” Leliana said happily, and lifted the dagger from its box, running a finger along the flat of the blade.

Dorian glanced at Bull for help. _He_ felt threatened, even if Leliana did not. Threatened, and a little bit like he was walking in on someone having sex with the spymaster. Which is to say, he felt _very_ threatened. 

Bull looked conflicted. Of course, he had different feelings about the intersections of knives and sex than Dorian did.

“So... the shoes are...new,” Bull began. “They’re not like...the effects of any dead people?” 

“If they are,” said Leliana dreamily, “she did a marvellous job killing people who wear my size.” 

“That’s not a no,” Dorian observed. At last, Bull began to look appropriately concerned.

Leliana was lost to them by then, gently removing each shoe from its cloth wrapping. Dorian took a step back, and tugged on Bull’s arm. They could escape together if they moved quickly enough. And if Leliana noticed them leaving, Dorian could always hide behind Bull’s chest, clinging to his muscles if necessary.

She didn’t pay them any mind, and they made it down the stairs, no clinging necessary.

“Sometimes I forget how scary she is,” Bull whispered. The birds’ clamour covered their voices. “I won’t be forgetting again.”

“A unique form of romance, too be sure.” Dorian straightened his coat and took the deep breath of a man who has passed beneath the claws of a dragon and emerged unsinged. “But if it works for them…”

“Gotta keep things interesting in a long-distance relationship,” Bull agreed. They pondered this for a minute.

“How did she know that murder is what caused the chip?” Dorian wondered.

“I’ve seen that dagger before, I think,” Bull said at the same time. “Not since Duke Mallory said that shit about the last Blight being fake, though.”

“Is Duke Mallory the one who died mysteriously at Halamshiral?” Dorian asked. 

“I’m not sure we can call it ‘mysterious’ anymore. Orlesians.” Bull shuddered. “Even our Orlesians creep me the fuck out.”

“Don’t let her hear you!” Dorian hissed.

“I need a drink,” Bull muttered. “You?”

“Always.”


	5. The Fireworks

Dorian was going to write a book. A novel, to be precise, or, to be even more precise, he was going to make a list roughly the length of a novel, and that list-novel was going to be called _Worst Gifts Ever Given: An Inside Look at Members of the Inquisition._ Varric would think it was amazing. And the first entry in it was going to be the maker-forsaken fireworks. 

The whole keep _reeked_ of smoke, and the “overture,” as Dagna had termed the opening volley of this madness, was only half done. 

If she had _told_ anyone about her plans, that might have been one thing. But shortly after full dark, Dorian had heard a long, piercing whistle, and then a noise most properly conveyed by the word “ppsssssshhhheeeaaaapepbBOOM,” and the interior of the library was momentarily bathed in red-purple light.

Dorian had grabbed his staff from beside his chair and joined the stream of people pounding down the stairs, buckling on weapons and shouting orders. It was only when the better part of an army reached the courtyard that they discovered the only thing worth hitting outside was a gleefully cackling arcanist and dozens upon dozens of rockets that sparked aggressively, even sitting on the ground.

Dorian cast a barrier over himself and approached. “Hello, Dagna,” he said as casually as he could manage. “What, precisely, are you up to?”

“Fireworks!” She thrust a hissing rocket into his hands. She was wearing goggles. “This one will look like a dragon!”

Dorian handed it back to her before he could be seen as complicit in the nonsense. “A...dragon. You don’t think, maybe, a few people here might have.... Bad memories of dragons? And you know, loud, threatening noises in their camps in general.”

“Oh,” Dagna said. To her credit, she did sound rather contrite. “There was a dragon at Haven, wasn’t there? Maybe not that one.” She reached _into_ the body of the rocket. It stopped sounding like an angry varghest.

“Thank you,” Dorian said weakly.

“Are bees alright, you think?” She held up a slightly smaller rocket. This one was yellow and buzzing gently. “Corypheus may have corrupted the wardens,but he hasn’t got any bees.”

“Actual bees?”

“No! Magnesium Phosphate! And, um, some fire essence. Don’t tell the Inquisitor about me using that.”

“Do you think that perhaps, maybe, before you continue the… show, you should make some sort of announcement? Tell everyone not to panic, that sort of thing?”

“Right,” said Dagna. “Good thinking.” She turned to the assembled and somewhat traumatized crowd and announced, in a voice louder than Dorian would have believed her capable of, “Everyone! Don’t be afraid! We’re not under attack! This is nothing but magical explosives and some little tiny demon bits in pressurized containers! Completely harmless.” 

“Have you ever been to Kirkwall?” Varric’s voice drifted up from the crowd.

“Nope,” Dagna answered cheerfully, and let the bees fly. 

After that, there were more explosions (all thankfully high above the roofline of the Inquisitor’s tower), some screaming, though that quieted relatively quickly, and some enterprising soul (perhaps Flissa?) started selling cold sausages left over from dinner. Dorian was impressed with the capitalistic resilience of the Fereldan spirit as the mood shifted toward celebratory.

Dagna’s fireworks continued for a long time. Along with the bees, which were excellent, there were rainbows, longbows, arrows, and many, many red and yellow flowers, strewn with yet more bees. Around the first longbow, Dorian began to suspect a theme.

He noticed a figure on the roof of the tavern, which was certainly an advantageous viewing position. “Is that Sera?” he asked Dagna.

She shielding her eyes and followed his finger. “I hope so!”

“So this...presentation is all for her benefit?” Dorian hazarded. 

“Yep!” 

Dorian spared a brief moment of thought for his jealousy and complete bewilderment at Dagna’s blase attitude towards announcing the object of her affections, then stamped the emotions down. 

“This is the big one,” she told him, and carefully levered a very large rocket into position. Dorian took a few steps back. 

It was, indeed, The Big One. Sera’s mount, lovingly rendered in pink and silver sparks, glowered down at them all with eyes just as menacing as its progenitor. She’d gotten its wrinkly snout and beady gaze just right.

The crowd “oohed” and “ahhed” at the nuggalope a little nervously. Sera, up on the rooftop, whooped. It was hard for Dorian to tell in the shifting light of the firework, but he thought Dagna may have blushed.


	6. The Noble Steed

Bad ideas were catching. That was the only explanation.

Dorian was on the way out of the library after a long, fruitless day of tracking down Tevinter lineages through acres of dry, archaically-conjugated, obsessively footnoted text. The first torches had been lit hours ago, and even the tavern was quiet and nearly dark. At this time of night, it was usually just Dorian and the guards still up.

He spotted movement by the gate. Sneaky movement. Surreptitious, even, despite the large size of the figures doing the moving. There was whispering.

As carefully, as silently as he could, Dorian slipped past the door of the tavern and crept down the stairs along the exterior wall. He thought Cole-like thoughts to himself, and pressed his body against the stones. 

After some peering and squinting, he was able to identify the players in this midnight pantomime.

Foremost was the horse. It was a truly massive beast, heavy shouldered and wide-headed. It stood placidly, barely moving its hooves, which were muffled with burlap sacks. Dorian had never actually seen it done in person. Varric liked including it in his spy novels, for when the heroes had to make stealthy, moon-lit escapes. Presumably it was keeping this horse’s hooves quiet, because the people leading were definitely the loudest creatures about. 

Dorian recognized Dennett and one of the stablehands standing at the horse’s head. There was a guard talking to someone entirely obscured by the bulk of the horse’s body. Dorian followed a little ways behind as they left the guard and led the horse to the stables. 

The horse was installed in the pen that had housed Adaar’s rotating array of long-suffering mounts. She was tall, even among Vashoth, and Dennett had been hard-pressed to find a steed that could perform up to the standards required by the Inquisition’s grueling work. This horse, it seemed, might just fit the bill.

But why the secrecy?

The horse shifted, revealing the mysterious third person to be Blackwall. He shook hands with Dennett, passed the stablehand a coin, and slipped into the stall to remove the sackcloth from the horse’s hooves. It whickered softly and pushed its nose into his hair. Blackwall’s laughter startled Dorian; it was low and genuine, and Dorian shifted on his feet, suddenly feeling like he was intruding on something terribly private.

Blackwall pushed himself to his feet with a small groan, and stroked the horse’s face, then offered it a slice of apple. The horse lipped at his hand, and Dorian truly feared for his fingers. “There y’are, lass,” the Warden murmured, Marcher burr rougher than usual, even to Dorian’s untrained ear.

He waited until Blackwall left the stall and latched the door behind him, and then said in his most Magisterial and sinister voice, “well, well, well, what have we here?”

Blackwall jumped a solid six inches off the ground and whipped around to face him.

“Illicit meetings in shadowy stables? Romantic gifts? Pet names? Does Lady Adaar have a rival for your affections, Ser Warden?”

Blackwall sighed and ran a hand over his beard. “Oh, it’s just you.”

“ _Just_ me?” Dorian feigned offence. “Oh, please, there is nothing just about me. Unjustly handsome, unjustly intelligent, unjustly tortured by frigid air and unjustly maligned by surly Wardens.”

“What do you want, Dorian?” Blackwall talked over him.

Dorian sidled closer to the horse. She eyed him hopefully, looking for more apples. “What I always want: to know everything that everyone else is doing and why and how.”

Blackwall might have smirked. It was hard to tell under all that beard. “This is Arcadia, from the Blanchard stables in Val Montaigne.”

“They’re considered to be decent, as I recall?”

Blackwall puffed up. “They’re considered to be the best. Blanchard chargers are the strongest, smartest warhorses in Thedas.”

“She’s certainly quite tall,” Dorian agreed. “But I believe the finest horses in Thedas are bred in Perivantium, not anywhere in Orlais. I should know, since I’ve been riding them since I was four.”

Blackwall’s habitual glower turned stormy. “Noble’s pets aren’t the same as warhorses, Vint. They’ve got to be hardier, more powerful. They train horses like Arcadia for years before they’re ready to be on the battlefield. Trust me when I say she’s the best of the best.”

Dorian sniffed. “I hunted with the son of the Archon for two summers. I do indeed know a bit about horses, and specifically the horses that the _Imperium_ considers to be the best of the best.”

“Well, pardon me, your Lordship. But I’m the one who got Lady Adaar a horse, so it’s my judgement we’re trusting here.”

Dorian was pleased with himself. “This is truly a surprise for her then? If the Blanchard broodmares are so sought-after, however did you manage to get your hands on one.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Wait, is that why you were being so secretive? Is Mistress Arcadia contraband? Is this grand theft equus that I’ve stumbled upon?”

Blackwall looked truly affronted. “I would never give her Ladyship stolen goods. I used some backdoor contacts, that’s all. And it is meant to be a surprise,” he admitted after a minute.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say that Lady Adaar will be struck speechless by your generosity,” Dorian allowed. He surveyed Arcadia with a critical eye. “And if any horse can carry her hither and yon across Thedas, it will be this one.”

Arcadia surveyed him back, then daintily stretched her monstrous neck out over the stall door and took the shoulder of Dorian’s sleeve between her teeth. His shirt tore with a sound like a thousand seamstresses crying.

Blackwall doubled over in laughter, and Dorian grabbed at the fabric hanging from the horse’s mouth. She held it fast, chewing placidly.

“And just think,” Blackwall said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “How much more convenient it will be when you don’t have to go all the way to an Orlesian stable to see your regular stylist.” 

Dorian retrieved his sleeve, squared his shoulders, and fled. With dignity, of course.


	7. The Other Hat

Dorian did not know every person in Skyhold. He was barely able to tell one of Cullen’s lieutenants from another. They were always so Fereldan, rugged and gruff and bundled up in their armor and fur coats. And they were all so… blond.

He did have a fairly decent grasp on the people who regularly showed up in his library. There were Leliana’s scouts, of course, who came and went, and Leliana’s birds, who stayed. There were people availing themselves of the archived tomes, and attending up on them, the nervous young man who was nominally in charge of the books, and there was Helisma, whose research was always fascinating, in an anatomical and sometimes pungent sort of way. Dorian would never look at gizzards the same way again. Solas was downstairs painting more often than not, and Adaar stopped to talk to him fairly often. Sometimes, the Iron Bull also happened by. Dorian was sure he had no idea why.

In any case, he felt fairly confident that he was able to identify unfamiliar voices in his library, and however often it asked him probing questions out in the field, Cole’s voice was not one he expected to hear among his books. He was browsing the shelves close to the doorway leading to Vivienne’s balcony when he heard the distinct sound of Cole’s laughter through the door. Intrigued, he investigated. 

“It’s a ratty old thing,” Vivienne was saying, “but I’m certain if you like it there’s no harm in having you dress a little less like a street urchin.”

“I do like it!” Cole exclaimed. “It’s like armor. Soft, but strong. The silk worms were happy when they spun and flew away.”

“You do know the process for making silk generally requires the worms boiling and dying, don’t you, my dear?” Vivienne, as always, sounded terrifyingly nonchalant.

“But not always. You made sure. You only bought them because they were free. You know what it’s like to be worth only what you can do.”

Dorian hadn’t known that there _were_ ways to make silk without killing the worms, but he supposed if anyone knew about them it would be Vivienne. 

“You’re not suggesting I would spend time _researching_ ethical Rivaini silk farms?” 

“You did, though. ‘Greedy bastards can’t wait ten days for the moths to hatch; poor little things don’t even know what’s happened. No chance to--’”

“That sounds nothing like me, dear.” Dorian heard the unmistakable sound of a teacup rattling in a saucer as it was set down. “I would never bother with such trifiling fancies.”

“They’re not trifiling. You mattered to them. They’re alive because of you.” 

“I--” Vivienne paused. “Enjoy your hat, dear. And do keep this between us.”

“Why?”

Dorian hastily vacated the doorway and tried to look like he hadn’t been eavesdropping. If Vivienne didn’t want anyone to know that she had a soft spot for insects, Dorian would respect her privacy, and wait for an opportune moment to reveal his knowledge. He went and began to examine the shelves in earnest, before realizing every book in the row was an identical edition of _Hard in Hightown._ He quickly recoiled. 

Cole had never, in Dorian’s memory, actually opened or closed a door, but he was standing by Helisma’s table now, one of Vivienne’s older slik hennins firmly affixed to his head. It looked as if she’d sacrificed some hairpins as well, to get it to stay. Dorian wasn’t really sure that blue was Cole’s color. It washed him out even more than usual.

“Hello, Cole,” said Helisma, setting down her calipers. “You have a new hat.”

Cole beamed at her. “Yes! It was a gift from Madame Vivienne.”

“A gift,” Helisma repeated in her flat voice. “I remember that I enjoyed giving them. I do not remember why.”

“‘A new dress, now that I’m taller. Lace at the sleeves, like on Mama’s best. Not hand-me-down from my sisters, the seamstress took my measurements. I stood so still just so they would get it right.’” 

“Yes,” said Helisma, “it was blue.” She continued her work. 

Dorian stared resolutely at the books in front of him.

Cole appeared at his shoulder. “She isn’t sad anymore, Dorian. Why are you?”

Dorian flinched, and turned back to the books until Cole vanished again.


	8. The Pen

Dorian stared at the text in front of him, barely comprehending the words. He just couldn’t get it out of his head: when was the last time anyone had given Helisma a gift?

The Tranquil never asked for anything they didn’t need, never seemed to give their creature comforts a second thought. Not even a first thought, to be honest. If one were to give Helisma a gift, what in the Maker’s name would it even be?

He went to the tavern to think. Thinking, to Dorian’s mind, required beer. 

The Iron Bull found him while he was brooding into his second--third? mug of Fereldan swill. Dorian quite liked Fereldan swill. It was an excellent beer for thinking. Bull made a vague gesture to indicate to Cabot that he would have whatever Dorian was having. 

“Are you thinking too?” Dorian asked. Thinking beer was not so good for talking. 

“Usually,” Bull replied. He sat on the stool next to Dorian’s. “Are we thinking about anything in particular?”

“Gifts,” said Dorian.

“Oh? Who for?”

Dorian swirled the beer in his mug. “Someone who spends a lot of time in the library. Smart, dedicated, very concerned with order.” For some reason, he felt almost embarrassed by how much this was distressing him.

“So you, basically.” 

“No!” Dorian recoiled a bit.

“Touched a nerve, did I?” Bull asked, holding his hands up placatingly. “You have to admit that’s a pretty vague description.”

“It’s for Helisma,” Dorian admitted.

“The Tranquil?” Bull leaned on the bar. “Interesting challenge. What’re your ideas so far?”

Dorian groaned. “Inkwells.”

Bull waited.

“No, that’s it. That’s the only thing I’ve been able to come up with.”

“Oh,” Bull said tactfully. 

“And I can’t exactly go up to her and say, ‘here, I saw this inkwell and thought of you, happy Wintersend,’ now can I?”

“Wait, so, this is a real gift you’re talking about here? This isn’t some kind of fucked up brain teaser you put yourself up to?” 

Dorian glared.

“Okay, okay, sorry. Uh... well…” Bull chewed on his lip. “Nope. I’ve got nothing either. Sentimental gifts are out, for sure. It’d have to be something she could use, like...a new wyvern liver?” He sounded hopeful. 

“But she only uses the livers to investigate things that are useful to other people. She doesn’t actually _want_ animal body parts. She doesn’t _like_ them.” Dorian sighed and took a deep swallow of beer.

“So what _does_ she want?”

“For Skyhold to be run with ‘optimal efficiency’ and all her paperwork in triplicate,” Dorian said bitterly. 

“Efficiency, huh?” Bull said, gazing abstractedly into middle distance. 

“Bull.” Dorian stood abruptly. “You’re a genius.”

“Kind of you to notice. Hey, do you think--” 

“I have to go see Dagna.”

“What?” Bull stood up too. “Why?”

“Because Dagna knows enchantments.”

“Found her.” Bull pointed across the bar.

“Dagna!” 

“Dorian!” 

“Come here! I have an idea!”

“Great! Let me bring my thinking beer!” 

Dorian heard Cabot sigh deeply, but he didn’t care. Bull sat back down and collected a new mug of his own.

“I need you to invent a pen,” Dorian said seriously, when she approached. 

“I’m pretty sure those already--” 

Dorian shushed her. “An enchanted pen, a pen that produces everything it writes in triplicate. And it has to be blue.”

“Blue?” 

“Blue.”

“Alright.” She pulled out a notebook and began to sketch. “Dwarf-sized? Human-sized? Is it for Bull?” She eyed the Qunari contemplatively.

“It’s for Helisma,” Dorian said. “The Tranquil--”

“Who does the creature experiments! Oh, she’s lovely. What a sweet thought!” She scratched at the paper a bit. “I think if you don’t mind it being a lapis overlay with a gold and paragon’s luster core we can get that to work. I have some scraps at my workbench now and...” Dorian followed her as she drifted out the tavern door and towards the undercroft, beer abandoned. He glanced back at the bar before they left, and saw Bull flash him a thumbs up.


	9. The Trap

“This is for you.” Dorian held out the pen, nestled in the oblong box that Dagna had dredged up from the depths of her “just in case” bin. Dorian didn’t want to remember some of the other objects she felt deserved status as “just in case,” but it was a nice box. He’d added a soft ribbon to the outside. “It’s a gift,” he added unnecessarily. 

Helisma took the box with an expression of polite neutrality. Dorian supposed he couldn't expect anything else. “Thank you,” she said, “is it permissible to open it?”

“Of course.” 

Helisma slid the ribbon off, pocketing it, and opened the box. The pen glimmered in an acceptably beautiful way, to Dorian’s eye. 

“It writes on three layers of parchment at once,” Dorian explained, “So that you don’t have to fill out the same form three separate times.” 

Helisma’s eyebrows raised slightly. Dorian wondered if surprise was an emotion. “This will significantly increase my efficiency. I am grateful.” 

“You’re--you’re welcome.” Dorian turned to flee. 

“Dorian?” 

“Yes?”

“It’s blue,” she said. 

“Yes, I er, I rather thought--”

“It is likely to decrease my eye strain. You are thoughtful.” 

Who were the merchants most likely to sell him eyeglasses, Dorian wondered. “I’m glad you like-- I’m glad it will be useful.”

“Yes,” said Helisma. “I will return to my duties now.” 

Dorian nodded, since his throat seemed to be rather tight. He returned to his own duties: following the twisting genealogical trail of the Magister who Corypheus might once have been. He’d sat back down in his own chair, with the huge book open in front of him, when a door slammed open on the level below.

Dorian waited the fifteen seconds for Solas’s inevitable storm-off before he went downstairs to investigate the ruckus. He found Sera and Dagna collapsed on an atrium couch, giggling. They looked at him, standing in the doorway with arms crossed and eyebrows raised, and fell into cackles all over again. 

“It’s a trap!” Sera announced.

“It’s a cake!” Dagna said, wheezing. 

“What is?” Dorian approached them warily.

“The cake,” Sera said. 

“The trap,” Dagna told him at the same time. 

“You poisoned someone’s cake?” he hazarded.

“Nope!” Sera was gleeful. 

Dagna sat up and caught her breath. “We left Commander Cullen a piece of cake on his desk!” She hid her face as she began to hiccup. 

“Ah,” Dorian said, grinning despite himself. “Hilarious?”

“Nothin’ wrong with it! ‘s just cake!” 

“He’s going to tie himself in _knots_ over it!” Dagna hiccuped again.

Dorian smirked for real this time. There was a certain... elegant simplicity to the idea. The brilliance of course, was in its understatement. 

“And if he eats it--” Sera wiped a tear away, “there’s _blueberries_ in it!”

“Doesn’t the Commander...like blueberries?”

“Yep!” More sniggering. “It’s going to drive him _crazy_.”

“I need water,” Dagna interjected, and stood up. Sera did too, after a moment. She paused at the door to the main hall. “Dorian, did Helisma like the pen?”

“Yes, she did.” Dorian cleared his throat. “I think. Thank you for helping me.”

“No problem, you big softy.” She winked, and pulled Sera through the door.

Dorian almost went back to his books. Instead, he crossed the walkway to the battlements, telling himself the whole way it was because this direction was fastest to Herald’s Rest, and not because he wanted to see the aftermath of The Cake Plot. If, when he passed through Cullen’s office, he noticed the Commander glaring at a slice of blueberry cake, fingers steepled and mumbling to himself in intense concentration, well, no one else had to know why Dorian was smiling.


	10. The Shield

The Inquisitor’s inner circle was designed to function differently than the bulk of the Inquisition’s military force. They were rarely engaged in pitched battles with field-filling armies, or starlit assassination plots. Dorian liked to think of them as a focused strike team, appearing dramatically at just the right moment and dashing off after saving the lives of the beleaguered farmers or waylaid travelers. 

More often, they were trudging through bogs and up mountains looking for bandits and darkspawn and tears in the Veil. And bears. One should never forget the bears. The bears certainly hadn’t forgotten them since their last visit, judging by their aggression.

He, Cassandra, and Varric were following Adaar as she trailed some of the assassins that inexplicably littered Hafter’s Woods. Dorian was entirely in favor of fewer assassins, of course. He just didn’t know why they were all _here_. Maybe there was some sort of nest.

Dorian made this observation to Varric, and they fell into their usual repartee. Cassandra rolled her eyes at them with a disgusted noise and continued to scan the trees. For more bears, Dorian assumed.

Dorian was perhaps a bit distracted. Varric was perhaps generally upset at being out of doors. Cassandra, as the one with more military training in one bicep than the rest of them put together, was rather more alert. Thus, she was the one who saw the slight glimmer of light on scale armor that betrayed the position of a sneaking assassin, while the others continued onward, blissfully unaware.

There was a soft crunch of leaves that was the only warning Dorian or Varric received before several things happened at once: Cassandra shouted something and unsheathed her sword, Dorian felt the familiar ripple of a barrier rising as Adaar whipped out her staff, and he heard a sickening crunch as Varric tumbled forwards. Cassandra was already standing over his prone form, twin gouges dug into the flesh of her shield arm. An unfamiliar man crumpled to the ground in front of her.

It took a moment for Dorian to realize that Varric was not hit, simply knocked away from a blow that likely would have killed him. The body of the assassin Cassandra was glowering down at was not so lucky. His neck was bent at an angle Dorian could best describe as “unhealthy,” and the man was most definitely, thoroughly, dead. The assassin that had taken on Adaar joined her friend scarcely a frost spell later. 

“Shit, Seeker.” Varric pulled himself to his feet and dusted himself off. 

“If you are going to complain that I did not save your life more gently, Varric, I--”

“Thank you.” Varric said it with sincerity. Dorian and Adaar exchanged a glance.

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Think nothing of it,” she said stiffly. 

“I can’t promise to do that, but--” he stepped forward as Cassandra staggered slightly, “Ah, double shit. Poisoned blades.” He picked up one of the assassin’s weapons to show to Adaar.

“I’m fine,” Cassandra growled. She wobbled again. 

Dorian laid a careful hand just above her arm to use one of the few healing spells he’d already known when he came to the South. “No, you’re not. This is Tears of the Dead. You need to keep your arm below your heart, your heart rate down, and definitely don’t stab anyone else. It would be best if you went back to camp to the healers.”

She turned her glare on him, and it was awful. Dorian didn’t know how Varric could stand it. 

“I’m serious. You can’t hold this over Varric tomorrow if you’re dead tonight.”

“I would never,” she grumbled. None of them believed her. “Fine.”

“As long as I’m alive to hear it, hold it over my head as much as you want,” Varric said. 

They made their way back to camp, Cassandra leaning heavily on Dorian. Varric kept Bianca in his hands and his eyes trained on the trees the entire time.


	11. The Sword

Dorian, for some reason, had actually thought that Cassandra would be a decent patient. In his defense, he’d formed this opinion while they rode back to Skyhold, and she’d slept most of the time. Dorian had seen enough poisonings to know she was beyond any real danger now, of course, but it was still rather disconcerting. Varric and Adaar seemed to agree.

The journey was tense and quiet. Dorian rode point with Leliana’s scouts, Adaar, astride the massive Arcadia, stayed near the covered wagon that Cassandra rode in with Varric. Varric scribbled constantly in his notebook. There was nothing like a near-death experience to get the creative juices flowing, Dorian supposed. Or a near-Seeker experience. 

It was when they were back in the castle and she was informed that her bed rest was to continue that the real problems began to arise. 

Cassandra, as a rule, took out her frustrations in the training ring. This avenue being denied to her, she shouted. Loudly and seemingly without end. The only time she didn’t yell was when Josephine visited her, and Dorian couldn’t decide if it was because she was smitten or scared. Or both. Both was always an option. 

Josephine, when not with Cassandra, flurried. She bustled around the keep, loudly directing every person she saw to be more efficient, more military, more Inquisitorial--though that last was generally reserved for Adaar.

Varric, for his part, was uncharacteristically quiet. He stayed ensconced at his small table in the main hall, scratching away. Dorian asked him what he was working on at one point and got back only a muttered, “thank you note.” It was a very _long_ thank you note, in Dorian’s humble opinion, but he knew better than to share his thoughts on the matter aloud. 

The third day of Cassandra’s convalescence dawned with even more bellowing than usual. Dorian was looking for a good, soundproof place to hide, and considering leaving the keep altogether, when Varric passed him on the stairs with a cloth-wrapped bundle and a determined expression. Dorian, possessed always of a keen investigative nature and rarely of perfect instincts of self-preservation, followed him towards Cassandra’s room.

“Knock knock, Seeker. It’s your favorite dwarf. And Sparkler, apparently.” Dorian shrugged at him.

“Harding is my favorite dwarf, Varric. Go away.” 

“Well it’s...how many dwarves do you know, would you say?”

There was a pause. “Eighteen, perhaps? By name at least.”

“It’s your eighteenth favorite dwarf, now open up or I won’t leave.”

There was a disgusted noise, and then the click of a latch. Cassandra looked... different. Dorian had hardly seen her without armor on, and definitely not in her nightdress. The fact that she wore a night _dress_ at all, and a lacy one at that, was surprising, to say the least. Her hair was down as well, which confused Dorian excessively. Partly because he hadn’t realized she had hair to let down.

Varric, apparently unphased, held out his mysterious bundle. “For you. Adaar mentioned something about my books earlier, but I felt like I should… this is….”

“Adaar is a traitor.” Cassandra took it regardless, and slowly unfolded the cloth.

“Anyways, thanks for saving my life, or something.” Varric fled. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of Thedas, bestselling wordsmith Varric Tethras,” Dorian announced dryly, gesturing to the vacated hallway. 

Cassandra snorted, and turned the book over in her hands. “The next chapter of _Swords and Shields_ ,” she murmured.

“Wait, really?” Dorian asked. “ _That’s_ the one--? Did you _ask_ for that? On purpose? Why?”

Cassandra flushed. “It’s romantic,” she said defensively. “Now go away. I’m not dressed.” The door was shut firmly in his face.

At least, Dorian thought, the book would keep Cassandra in her bed for a day or so. Perhaps she’d even complain a little less about not being allowed to hit things. He returned to the library, optimistic about getting some work done.

He was a fool. He heard Cassandra before he saw her, her heavy footsteps unmistakable on the stone floors. He slipped back into the great hall to witness whatever impending drama was upon them.

Cassandra cornered Varric by the fireplace and slammed the book down on the table in front of him. Vivienne, whose balcony Dorian was observing from, stood and joined him at the banister.

“ _Another_ cliffhanger, Varric? Really?” Everyone who hadn’t been staring when she burst in, clad in a lacy nightgown, hair still unbound, was staring now. 

Varric looked up suppressing a smirk. “I see you’re feeling better.”

“What. Happens. Next.” She growled at him. 

“Come on, Seeker, if I don’t give you a cliffhanger now, I’m gonna have to give you a whole new storyline for Wintersend.”

That made Cassandra pause, Dorian could see it. But only for so long. “You ended in the middle of a _sentence._ The Knight-Captain was in the middle of confessing her love for--”

“Don’t spoil it for everyone else!” Varric gasped.

At the other end of the table, the Iron Bull hauled himself to his feet. “Come on, Seeker, let’s work off some of that pent up aggression.” He handed her one of the short swords from his belt. Cassandra looked torn between berating Varric further and the calming feel of a weapon in her hands.

“Absolutely not!” Josephine hurried across the hall. “Seeker Pentaghast has not been cleared for strenuous activity, Iron Bull!”

“Ah, it’s not anything _too_ strenuous, just hitting things. And besides, if you keep her cooped up any longer she’s going to rust.”

“I’m right here,” Cassandra groused and rolled her shoulder, limbering up her sword arm. “And I would be delighted to join you in the training ring, Bull.”

Josephine knew when she’d lost a battle. “Just, do be careful.” Dorian fancied her tone was slightly more worried than exasperated. He was a bit nervous himself, to see what Cassandra might do to Bull after being deprived of an outlet for nearly two whole weeks. 

Varric watched them leave, then stood and passed a folded piece of paper to Josephine on his way out of the hall. “Don’t say I never gave you anything, Ruffles.”

Josephine glanced between the paper and him, nonplussed. “Yes, but what is it that you think you’re giving me?”

Varric smirked. “A happy Seeker. And the last page.” He exited in the direction of the Herald’s Rest. 

Josephine unfolded the paper. Dorian thought he was the only person who heard her murmur, “the Antivan Pirate? Really?”


	12. The Crest

It wasn’t a problem. It really wasn’t, and he wasn’t absolutely furious. Dorian only burned the letter from that _snake_ of an Orlesian in his most dramatic burst of purple fire because… no. He was very angry, and it _was_ a problem.

This was not how pawning one-of-a-kind family heirlooms was supposed to work. He was _supposed_ to be able to buy it back with no one the wiser. But he’d gone and made a scene, and now Adaar wanted to spend Inquisition resources on fixing his mistake.

“You’re allowed to be angry, you know,” Bull said calmly, blowing a few bits of ash from the place they had settled on his shoulder like snow. He’d shown up partway through Dorian’s recitation of Ponchard’s letter, and his ensuing argument with Adaar over who would solve the problem. As Adaar had claimed Dorian’s seat, Bull sat on the floor under the window.

“I know, Bull. You might be shocked to find this out, but I _am_ angry. I even know I’m angry. It’s called emotional awareness. It’s when you know the names of the feelings you have while you’re having them.” 

“What are you gonna do about it, then?” 

“I’ll...” Dorian deflated. Nothing. He could do nothing. He wasn’t sure what outcome he would even want. 

“You’re going to let me help,” Adaar said stubbornly. With the addition of Bull, his alcove was, by definition, crowded. Crowded with people who were trying help him, and not letting him wallow and fume the way he wanted to. “Vexing” was too weak a word.

“Not that,” Dorian supplied. “I’m going to do not that.” 

Bull rolled his eyes. “Will you let me help? With the resources of not the Inquisition?” 

“I really don’t need a hero, here, Bull. It’s a--a trinket. Nothing more. A trinket with a fair amount of social significance, to be certain but... it’s not anything I want the Inquisition to handle for me. Or you.” He knew he sounded bitter, and also like he was lying, but if that was true it was only because he was both bitter and lying. 

“Darling, you don’t need a hero, you need a bitch.” And now Madame de Fer was also here to pester him with her good intentions. Since when did she even have good intentions? Aside from... Dorian fumed irritably about his inability to fume at her. 

“Well, between the three of us, we can help,” Adaar said. “If we each do something very small, it’s like none of us are doing anything, right?”

“Oh, I have no intention whatsoever of ‘doing’ anything for that mongrel,” Vivienne said, examining her nails. “I am simply going to explain to Monsieur Ponchard the delicate workings of mercantile contracts in Orlais.” 

“In Trade this time, please?” Adaar asked, looking baffled. 

“I am going to bring the Iron Bull to meet with him, and if Bull cannot manage to look sufficiently menacing as to make him hand it back on the spot I am going to ruin his life with two letters and a well-placed handkerchief.” 

“Oh,” said Adaar cheerfully. “Well let me know if you need a new handkerchief.” 

Vivienne leveled her gaze at Adaar’s orange “everyday” uniform. “I will, darling. But do let me pick it out. No offense intended, of course.”

“Pardon me,” Dorian interjected, “but does anyone remember two minutes ago when I said _not_ to ‘assist’ me?”

"No,” said Adaar.

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t present,” Vivienne told him. 

Bull grinned. “Sorry, Vint. Didn’t hear a thing.” 

Dorian had the distinctly childish urge to stamp his foot and storm away. He settled for crossing his arms and glaring at each of them until _they_ left. Vivienne and Adaar did, without waiting for him to get over himself. Bull patted the stone floor next to him, indicating Dorian should sit down. He sat, but with a great deal of dramatic reluctance. 

“Does it bother you that much that people care about your happiness, Dorian?” He said it mildly, but Dorian felt his nose wrinkle in distaste all the same. He didn’t want to talk about his _feelings_.

“It bothers me that I seem to be the only person in the entire Inquisition who’s noticed that there are things that are more important than a small object I clearly wasn’t fussed enough with not to pawn in the first place.” 

“When you were starving and couldn’t afford food, you mean.” 

Dorian winced. “It doesn’t matter why I sold it. It matters that the Inquisition getting it back for me makes Adaar look like-- like she’s--”

“‘Unduly influenced by a Tevinter?’” Bull suggested dryly.

“Like I’m taking advantage of her good nature. Like I’m the only person who has to send her on petty little errands in order to stay here.” 

“You think you haven’t earned your place.” 

“I never said that,” Dorian snapped. 

Bull shrugged. “I’m not stupid, Dorian. You’re not exactly my first experience with someone who puts the wants of a group before their own needs.”

Dorian bit his lip. “It’s not nobility or _self-sacrifice_ or whatever you--” 

“You’re right. It’s fear. And it’s pretty fucking stupid, when it comes down to it. Not going after what you want. Not when it doesn’t hurt anyone else. Doesn’t cost anything anyone hasn’t already offered to give. Sometimes, what you want is also the right thing to do.” 

Dorian had been there, on the Storm Coast. He’d seen the dreadnought explode. He hadn’t thought less of Bull, then or now, for succumbing to the temptation. He swallowed.“I... thank you, I suppose, for thinking of me, then.” 

“No trouble at all.” Bull smirked at him and stood, groaning as he put weight on his bad leg. “See you later, Vint. Ma’am wants to take me to run some errands in Val Royeaux.”

Adaar slipped back up the stairs as the light was fading and Dorian was deciding whether to light candles or put his books up for the night. She knocked on the side of a bookshelf like it was a door frame.

“Look,” she said before Dorian could do more than stand. “I think it’s sort of pointless to have massive international influence and an army of devout followers and then _not_ help my friends where I can, but if it really bothers you that much, I won’t go scare Ponchard shitless and get your necklace back.”

“It’s called a birthright,” Dorian corrected automatically.

“Yeah, that. I bet it’s got snakes on it. That’s creepy. I wouldn’t want to touch that.” She made a face.

Dorian sighed. “I just--”

“Don’t want it to look like you’re using me, I know.” She shrugged. “If it helps, I think anyone who’s been in the library today knows that you don’t want me using my Inquisitorial powers of persuasion to help you. You were sort of… loud about that.”

“Just keeping up appearances,” Dorian said. “I’m supposed to stand counter to all tales of Tevinter excess and corruption, you know. Nepotism is very bad form.”

“We’re not family, Dorian.” 

He gave her a wry smile. “Aren’t we?” 

“Yeah,” she threw an arm around his shoulder. “But you’re older, so you have to buy the drinks.” 

Dorian sighed. “I’ve always dreamed of having a little sister.”


	13. The King

“So.” Bull’s voice drifted up from the lower level of the atrium. “About that last game.”

Dorian strained to hear Solas’s quiet reply.

“Well, since you had trouble remembering where the pieces were on the board, I figured you could benefit from a visual aid.”

“I hardly think that misplacing one pawn calls for this level of--”

“You gettin’ old, Solas? Having trouble remembering the little details?”

That particular silence was the sound of Solas glaring, Dorian was sure. He set down the paper he’d been annotating. “One piece is not--”

“Yeah it is. One piece won you that game.”

“Ah, still embittered by your loss, I see.”

“Throws off our statistics, don’t you think?”

“If it will satisfy your competitive feelings, then we can certainly keep your chess set here.” Dorian moved closer to the bannister, but not close enough that either of them could see him.

“Nah, I don’t need to beat you again. It’s enough that you know I would have won.”

“A rematch, perhaps? To provide closure?”

Dorian couldn’t see their faces from his place on the balcony, but, looking at Bull’s broad shoulders he could imagine the sly smile on his face. “Only if you want it, big guy.”

"By all means." Solas's tone was nearly predatory. "Let me show you where you went wrong."

Dorian stalked back to his paper, and returned to his annotating with vigor. There was nothing else for him to see in the rotunda. He refused to give a name to what he was feeling, emotional awareness be damned. 

The Iron Bull stayed on the bottom floor of the library and played chess with Solas for a long time. Dorian had known, in a sort of intellectual way, that they were friendly, but since Adaar usually took either him or Solas into the field, he’d never actually seen them interact. 

Had Dorian not occasionally glanced down into the atrium when he stood up to find a new book or stretch his legs, he might not have known exactly how long Bull stayed. The only sounds below him came from the soft clunk of chess pieces hitting the board, and the occasional sharp exhale. 

For his part, Dorian got practically no work done the entire time they were down there. Something about the way the bases of the pieces clicked against the stone board grated on his nerves and broke his concentration. He wanted… Well, it was just too quiet, that was the problem. Also too noisy. It was just wrong. 

After he heard the Chantry bell strike the hour, he gave up and went to ask Josephine about an archaic Antivan word that had shown up in one of his texts. He took the scenic route around the battlements and the garden to clear the cobwebs in his head, rather than cut through the throne room. Who knew what sort of dignitaries might be lurking there.

He pushed open the door to the Ambassador’s office, and experienced a moment of utter disorientation. Josephine Cherette Montilyet was not at her desk. 

He found her, a few bewildered moments later, in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. Intellectually, Dorian had known that she could sit in an armchair in front of a roaring fire with a cup of tea, but seeing it actually happen was a lot like realizing that one’s eminently dignified aunt collected plush nugs in her spare time. 

Cassandra was also there, looking a bit pink from the heat of the fire. 

Josephine looked up at the sound of the door. “Oh, Dorian! I am glad you stopped by. Do you have any opinions on the relationship between Tevinter and Nevarra?”

Dorian, pleased that she was pleased to see him, sauntered over and perched on the arm of Cassandra’s chair. “Opinions? Certainly.”

Josephine looked at him expectantly. 

“The relationship is not good,” Dorian said helpfully. “It’s my opinion that they are in fact very unfriendly with each other.”

“Dorian Pavus, a diplomatic marvel,” Cassandra said. She looked slightly cross at his being present. Dorian couldn’t work out why. 

“Cassandra, do you have anything more, ah, substantive to add from a Nevarran perspective?” Josephine asked.

Cassandra nodded. “King Markus is rumored to have a great fondness for cats,” she said with confidence. 

“What does that have to do with their relationship?” Dorian asked, a little snidely.

“They... have cats. In Tevinter. ...Probably.” 

Josephine looked cross with the pair of them. “Thank you both. Any thoughts on how the Inquisition should behave in the--” she cleared her throat, “off chance that we may be in a position to support one very strongly over the other?”

Dorian tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“If I were to bring a… sensitive matter to Lady Adaar’s attention, I would like to be able to give her sound advice.”

“Oh, tell her to have Radonis assassinated,” Dorian said airly. “I’m reliably informed he isn’t sufficiently enamoured of cats. Honestly, how have we let him survive this long?” 

“That is quite enough, Dorian,” Josephine started.

“He is right to cast aspersions,” Cassandra said, flushing. “I am afraid the only thing I have heard reliably from Nevarra in the past few months is that I have moved twelve places up in line to the throne.” 

Dorian looked at her askance, and leaned slightly less of his weight on her slightly more royal shoulder.

“ _Twelve places?_ ” Josephine demanded. 

Cassandra shrugged. “I am told the Pentaghast line is not what it once was. Markus’s immediate relatives in particular.” 

“And you led with... cats.” Josephine looked as though she were almost in awe of Cassandra’s political ineptitude. 

“It seemed more relevant to Lady Adaar’s decision-making process,” she said apologetically.

“That’s a fair point,” Dorian offered in her defense.

Josephine scowled a little bit more. “Seeker Cassandra, if you would just permit me to make use of your royal connections I could--”

“Very well,” Cassandra said. 

“There is so much I could do with only a hint of infl... did you just say very well?” 

Cassandra nodded. “If doing so would please you, I could hardly refuse it.”

“Oh,” said Josephine, slightly breathless, “yes. That would please me greatly.”

Dorian glanced between the two of them and quietly took his leave. Maybe Bull was done playing chess.


	14. The Hammer

Dorian was not hiding. Vivienne and the Iron Bull had returned from their Val Royeaux excursion, but he wasn’t hiding from them. He wasn’t avoiding them, or his birthright, which one of them surely had. And he wasn’t in denial.

He was in the Undercroft.

“What are you working on?” His nose was inches from Dagna’s latest experiment. She looked... honestly a little too comfortable with his face’s proximity to the crucible she was puttering away in. Dorian backed up a few paces. He was curious, not suicidal. 

Dagna frowned a little bit at the mixture in her crucible. “I was hoping for a kaboom,” she murmured, mostly to the chemicals. 

Dorian sighed, and tried a different tactic. “So I talked to Sera this morning.” 

Dagna’s hand quivered over the crucible, tipping in more of a bluish powder than was probably necessary. The mixture fizzled hazardously. 

Harritt walked in, swinging a hammer and whistling. To Dorian’s knowledge, this was unusual. Then again, Dorian’s knowledge mostly consisted of Harritt spitting at him. The smith paused in his cheerful walk, locked eyes with Dorian, and then resumed whistling, now with a slight aggressive edge to the song. 

Dorian was not unfamiliar with the concept of being happy just to spite someone else, but he wasn’t entirely sure why Harritt had chosen to be spitefully happy at _him_. Well, he was Tevinter. Maybe he was supposed to despise all light and joy and go around inconveniencing heroic mabari puppies like a villain in a children’s puppet show. Dorian shrugged it off. 

“Oooh, is that it?” Dagna abandoned her conversation with Dorian to peer lustily at Harritt’s hammer and...that was a thought he really wished he had phrased differently, but there they were. 

“Yep.” Harritt displayed the hammer proudly. It did appear to have some very nice inlays of a metal Dorian’s untrained eye couldn’t recognize. The handle-- was it called a handle?-- was very pretty, in a brown, woodish sort of way. “He gave it to me this morning.” 

“Nice!” Dagna reached out with a single finger, only to have the hammer snatched away. 

“It’s a present from my man, I get to hammer stuff with it first.” 

Dagna pouted a tiny bit but relented. “Fine, but I wanna watch. Adan’s been talking about it for months.”

Dorian felt somewhat adrift. “Adan the… apothecary?” The male apothecary? Dorian hadn’t thought--

“He’s an _alchemist_ ,” Harritt growled. 

“A _talented_ alchemist,” Dagna added, reaching out to stroke the hammer again. Harritt smacked her hand. “He makes the best Antivan fire.” He voice was far too dreamy for Dorian to be comfortable.

“So that hammer...it’s not going to burst into flames, is it?” 

“Of course not!” It seemed the only way for Dorian to get more than grunting out of their blacksmith was to disparage his… lover’s? abilities. “No flame’s ever goin’ t’ char this handle, much less fire. It’s perfect! It’s even my favorite color!”

“...Brown?” Dorian hazarded.

“Nothing wrong with a good strong Fereldan brown.” 

“...ah.” Dorian said. It was wood. It was wood in color, and made of wood or wood-like materials. It was a wooden handle. “No, of course not.”

Harritt grunted balefully and went to the bellows to stoke the fire in the forge. Dagna returned to her crucible, apparently perfectly happy to let the conversation end there. She scolded the mixture for having cooled and solidified in her absence.

Dorian, slightly more nosy than she was, watched Harritt work.

He’d never really seen a blacksmith work before, or at least not paid attention while it was happening, so he didn’t have a lot to compare the experience with. But it seemed to him that the process was going well. Harritt was whistling, hammering away on a lump of metal that was rapidly becoming some sort of chest plate. The hammer’s head glowed dully, nearly as hot as the iron beneath it, but Harritt wasn’t even wearing gloves. Perhaps the exciting part of the hammer was something about the way it distributed heat.

The blacksmith kept glancing at the tool like he had to resist the urge to kiss it. 

“So you’re happy, then, you and Adan.” Dorian, apparently, was determined to get hit in the face by something very hot and alchemical today. 

“Should we not be?” Harritt’s accent was thicker when he was cheerful. “We’re getting married at Wintersend.” 

“Married?”

“You’re surprised.” 

The hammering was steady, but Dorian stayed out of arms range just in case. “I only meant I--” Dorian suddenly found his throat tight. It was probably the smoke. “--I didn’t know that was possible for two men to do here. Or, er, at all.” 

Harritt looked up at him, and for the first time in their acquaintance Dorian thought they understood one another. “It… is not a privilege I take lightly. Adan is--” he grunted, and turned back to the forge. “We’re happy.” 

“I’m glad,” Dorian told him, and he meant it.


	15. The Duck

It was on his bed, sat primly on his pillow when he returned from the library. Nothing else in his room had been changed. His blankets were still pulled up in a haphazard approximation of “made”, his small collection of scents and colors undisturbed in their bottles on the desk. The duck was the only thing he hadn’t expected.

It was small-- smaller than it should be, he thought. It fit in the palm of his hand. Its wings were painted on, feathers detailed with careful strokes, a soft brown that contrasted with the shimmering green of the neck. A Fereldan species, not one he was closely familiar with, but recognizable all the same. A duck.

It wasn’t a child’s toy, but… why should it be?

He turned it over, looking for clues-- how had it gotten there? Its placement was clearly deliberate. The tiny yellow feet painted on the bottom were cute, but unhelpful in determining an origin. Blackwall was the only person he knew of who worked with wood, but this was decidedly not his style. And it seemed unlikely that he had suddenly decided to gift Dorian with strange items via breaking and entering and... actually, thinking about it that way, Dorian had a pretty good idea who might have left the duck for him. 

He tucked the duck carefully into a pocket and set out in search of Cole.

Cole wasn’t in any of his usual haunts: he wasn’t lurking at the top of the tavern, or skulking around Varric’s table in the great hall, or poking about in the kitchens. He wasn’t in the gardens, near the infirmary, or even sitting on the battlements over the gate, watching people come and go across the wide causeway.

Dorian decided to do a second sweep, just in case he’d missed him the first time, and went back to the tavern. Cole wasn’t by the bar, either, but that’s where Dorian stayed. Maybe if he thought loud enough, Cole would come to him.

He sat, and drank some Fereldan swill, and considered the duck. It could only have been Cole… but _why_?

“Hello, Dorian.” It had worked, apparently. 

“Cole.” Dorian nodded at the spirit when he sat down at the table as well. He took a drink from his tankard. “The wooden duck I found on my bed, was that you?”

“No?” Cole tipped his head to the side like a confused mabari. “I’m not a wooden duck.”

Dorian snorted inelegantly. “I mean did you _put_ it there?” he was always so _literal_.

“Yes?” He turned the duck over in his hands when Dorian pushed it across the table. “I couldn’t find one with little wheels, though. I’m sorry.”

Wheels? Then Dorian’s first thought, that it reminded him of the toy he’d had as a child, hadn’t been completely out of place. He didn’t want to think about why Cole thought the memory hurt him so much as to require his interference. “That’s fine. I appreciate the thought.”

“You’re welcome.” Cole sounded pleased.

“But-- as grateful as I am for the gift, where did it _come_ from? You didn’t just lift it out of someone’s room did you? People tend to mind when you take things from them without asking, you know.”

“Oh, he won’t mind,” said Cole.

“Who, though?” 

A large body dropped into the seat next to Dorian, beer spilling over the top of his tankard as Bull settled in. He’d been training, Dorian could tell by the smell. 

“You found it!” 

“I take it this belongs to you?” Dorian held the wooden mallard up to Bull. Cole, predictably, had vanished.

“Yeah. Couldn’t find it anywhere. It was a gift from Skinner.” 

Dorian stared at the duck appraisingly. “You...collect wooden animals?” 

Bull grinned. “Nah, I collect little dragon figurines. They’re really neat. Krem even got me an enchanted one that breathes a tiny bit of fire for Wintersend last year. Skinner just got me the duck because she thought they needed something to eat.” 

Clutching the duck protectively to his chest, Dorian came to a difficult decision. “If that’s what you’re using him for, you shan’t be having him back.” 

“Aww, why not?” 

“Because his name is Vinchenzo now and I’m rescuing him. You may _visit_ the duck any time you wish, provided that you don’t bring any predatory animals with you.” 

“Any time I want, huh?” Bull asked. 

Dorian gauged Bull’s expression. He seemed amused, unconcerned at the possibility of losing the duck. Maybe even pleased. “Of course. Vinchenzo and I are gracious hosts, after all.” 

“Even right now?” 

Dorian put his ale down slowly. Bull watched him, eye on his hands. “I suppose that could be arranged, if you wanted.” 

“I want,” Bull answered. 

They left. Quickly. Had either of them been less preoccupied, they might have seen Cole smile. 

It would have been faster, of course, to simply go up the stairs and into the room above the tavern where Bull lived. But the pretense was important. Pretense was critical.

Bull said something Dorian didn’t catch.

“Pardon?”

“I asked what your feelings are on Maaras-Lok, because I’ve got some stashed with Adaar’s old Warden wines.”

“My feelings are positive, provided it’s better than the last thing she tried to pour down my throat. It tasted like buttered snails.”

Bull laughed and put his hand on Dorian’s arm. It was very warm.

They rounded the corner near his room to see the Inquisitor standing stock still in Dorian’s doorway, her eyes full of unshed tears. “Dorian?” Adaar’s voice quavered.

“What’s going on?” Dorian stepped away from Bull, already looking for his staff. 

“Gordon’s gone.”


	16. The Pardon

They went to Val Royeaux. It was horrible.

They returned. It was terrible. 

Thom Rainier was sent back slightly later, under cover of darkness. It was complicated. 

The first day that he was back in Skyhold, Dorian spent four hours watching over a slightly drunk and extremely tearful Vashoth. It was one of the most stressful four-hour intervals in his life. He really did not do well with crying, and the feeling of uselessness just seemed to compound itself as time went by. 

At last, Varric, looking grim but resigned, took over for him. Dorian considered going back to his room and moping. It was that sort of day. He had made the decision to follow through on this thought about the same time he realized his feet were taking him in an entirely different direction. 

Normally, Dorian avoided the dungeons. He didn’t like enclosed spaces, or the far drop. He didn’t like the dripping or the smell, and he most especially detested, well, all of it. The feeling of people that could have been otherwise. 

“Didn’t expect to see you down here of all people.” Blackwall--no, Thom Rainier sat with his back to the wall of his cell, looking out at Dorian. 

“I can’t say I expected it, either,” Dorian answered. The last time he had been down here, Alexius had been in that cell, sitting in much the same way. 

“Well, go on, let’s hear it. I’m sure I deserve it. And not much I can do if I don’t.” It lacked his usual… bite.

Dorian bit his lip. There were a thousand things Thom Rainier deserved to hear, but Dorian didn’t know him, not really. He addressed himself instead to Blackwall. “She cried, Gordon.”

Blackwall’s hands tightened. “My name’s not--”

“It is.” His tone brooked no argument. Dorian wasn’t sure where the words were coming from, but they were there, icy and certain. 

“Why are you telling me?”

“I presumed it would matter to you, unless I’ve misjudged you more severely than I thought.”

He looked away. “It does matter.” 

“Do you love her?” Dorian asked the question bluntly.

Blackwall still wasn’t looking at him. “More than my life.” 

“That’s not precisely a high bar at the moment, Gordon,” Dorian snapped, “looking at your recent behavior one might assume you didn’t care about being alive at all.” 

Thom Rainier stood up and faced Dorian, fury etched into every line of his face. “I did it to save my men. To save Mornay. They’re innocent. They don’t deserve to die for things I did wrong.” 

“Like I haven’t heard that one before,” Dorian spat. Now, he thought idly, somewhere in the part of his mind that was watching him shout with a kind of detached interest, now they were getting somewhere. 

“What do you want me to say?” Blackwall demanded. “That I’m sorry for doing the right thing for once in my sodding life?” 

“Nothing,” Dorian answered. “I wish you had said nothing and accepted things the way they were. That if you wanted to die you would have just fallen on your sword like a man instead of dragging everyone else down with you.” 

The man in the cell went silent. 

“When we were in Redcliffe,” Dorian began, his voice softer now, “in the future that never happened, I watched her face, when we saw you. We walked into the dungeon and found a dead man wearing your face. Speaking with your voice, or something like it. It was like Alexius had run a knife straight through her. A demon army at Adamant and a legion of nobles at Halamshiral, and until yesterday I hadn’t seen her look so wounded since.” He still saw the castle sometimes, in his dreams. The acres and acres of red. He knew Adaar relived it too, though they never spoke of it in company. It wasn’t the sort of experience one could easily make their lover understand. 

“That wasn’t me.”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Dorian said patiently. 

“Thom Rainier?” An Inquisition scout appeared in the doorway. “You’re wanted upstairs for sentencing.” 

Blackwall squared his shoulders and walked forwards stiffly when Alexius’s old cell was unlocked to accept his chains. 

The good thing about being a martyr of the people, Dorian reflected as he took an inconspicuous place in the great hall, was that no one in the world was ever going to reprimand you for sentencing a prisoner drunk. 

Adaar was not plastered, but nor was she precisely sober. Mostly, she looked deeply sad. 

“When you asked me if I thought you were the sort of man who did the right thing, it was about this, wasn’t it?” She asked it without preamble. 

“Yes.” 

“And you really think this,” she gestured to the room around them, the guards, the throne, the manacles on Blackwall’s hands, “was the best thing.” 

Dorian was startled to see Blackwall shoot him a sidelong glance before responding. “I have been told recently that the right thing and the best thing aren’t always the same, my lady.” 

Adaar’s features softened, and she gave Blackwall an expression that could almost be construed as a weary smile. “Thom Rainier, I sentence you to an honest life.” 

“I don’t deserve that. You can’t just _forgive_ me for--” 

Adaar raised an eyebrow coolly. “I just did. By the will of Andraste, you have been pardoned for all you have done.” 

“I--thank you, my lady. If my life is my own, I pledge it to the Inquisition. You have my sword.” he knelt before her throne.

Adaar stood. The Great Hall was emptier than usual during hearings. Dorian saw only Varric, Josephine, and a few scouts in attendance, most likely because Adaar had wanted it that way, had deliberately scheduled the hearings abruptly for privacy. Or maybe she just wanted to be shot of Thom Rainier, and didn’t care who came to see it. She descended. 

Blackwall looked up at her, and she reached out a hand, cupped one of his cheeks. “I forgive you, too, Gordon.” 

There was a pain Dorian had never known etched into Blackwall’s features. He threw his arms around Adaar and began to sob.


	17. The Duel

“I’ve never heard of the Otrantos.” Dorian sipped at his wine. “Sounds very Antivan.”

Vivienne nodded. “Extremely. Lord Ciel, the boy our Josephine’s family has selected, enjoys fencing with rapiers, dancing the tarantella, and wearing _bangled epaulets._ ”

“Maker’s mercy,” said Dorian. “Poor Josephine.”

“He’s not an unsuitable match,” interjected Leliana. “Lady Montilyet did her research. His family has excellent connections, and he himself is tolerably amiable.”

“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement,” Dorian observed.

“It isn’t. That’s why we’re sending Cassandra to Val Royeaux to duel him.”

“Ah, perfectly logical.” It was often best not to argue directly with either of them. With both? Dorian was little more than along for the ride, at this point.

So, under the guise of replacing the doublet she’d scorched fighting a dragon, Dorian accompanied Vivienne to Val Royeaux. Cassandra attending them ostensibly to act as chaperone, to make the Orlesians feel as if there weren’t two powerful mages at large amongst them, utterly unchecked. _Southerners_.

Cassandra was slightly shocked to learn that she had delivered a challenge without her knowledge, but accepted her role gamely.

Lord Ciel Otranto clearly baffled her. She glared at Dorian like he was the one who had orchestrated some sort of trick on her as Otranto offered her a rapier. It looked odd in her hand, and she rolled her shoulder like she was missing the weight of a shield on her arm.

“I’ve just realized,” said Dorian as the two combatants circled each other warily, “that this is utterly insane. What even is the goal here?”

“To end Lady Josephine’s unfortunate engagement.”

“Well, yes. But what, _specifically_ is Lord Otranto’s particular failing?”

“Simple, my dear.” Vivienne sighed like he was a student failing his lessons. “He is not our Lady Seeker.”

“Oh?” said Dorian stupidly. And then, “ _Oh._ ”

“Indeed. They’re both quite hopeless.” She sighed again. 

“Plus Lord Oregano Whatever’s a ponce.” Sera materialized at Dorian’s elbow, munching on a fruit bun. Dorian started, staring at her, and Sera shrugged and offered him a bite of the almost certainly stolen pastry. 

Cassandra and Ortranto clashed, their swords whipping back and forth, and when they locked blades Dorian saw Cassandra growl something that made her foe wince. Wordlessly, he leaned over and bit into the pastry. It was quite good, more Orlesian than he particularly liked, but good nonetheless.

“How did you get here?” Dorian demanded when he’d swallowed and recovered his wits. 

“Hitched a ride with Josie, didn’t I? Wasn’t gonna miss this.” 

“She’s right on time, then.” Vivienne would never deign to look giddily pleased with herself, but her expression now was close. “We wouldn’t want Cassandra to actually murder the man in broad daylight, however ridiculous his hobbies might be.” 

Dorian’s sidelong glance at Vivienne nearly caused him to miss the action as Cassandra’s blade sliced through one of Lord Ontranto’s epaulets, sending little mirrored beads bouncing across the plaza. The Lord grasped at his shoulder as if he’d been deeply wounded, but his fingers came away bloodless. Cassandra advanced.

“Stop! Stop!” Dorian was not sure it was technically legal in duels to viciously body check your opponent when he was distracted by the woman you were fighting over running in to stop the combat, but Cassandra had done it anyways. Lord Otranto sprawled on the ground, the breath clearly knocked out of him.

“My dear Lord Oregano, let me help you up.” Vivienne offered a gracious hand, effectively blocking Cassandra from taking another swing. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Josephine had decided that Cassandra was the instigator. Dorian rather suspected that Leliana and Vivienne had planned it that way. 

Cassandra’s mulish expression faltered under Josephine’s onslaught. “I just-- He was-- I was defending your honor!”

“From _what?_ ” Josephine demanded. “What could Lord Otranto have possibly said that would lead you to believe my honor required defending?” 

“He was-- I thought--”

“If I may interject,” Lord Otranto stepped in smoothly. Dorian wasn’t sure if he was terribly brave or had a death wish. Both women turned murderous glares on him for interrupting, and he quailed only a little. “I have this letter, you see, that led _me_ to believe this was a duel for the hand of our--” he gestured to himself and to Cassandra, “beloved Lady Montilyet. Winner takes all, as it were.”

Dorian wasn’t entirely certain he had ever seen Josephine look stunned before. “Seeker Pentaghast, is this true?”

Cassandra flushed. “Leliana told me you were attempting to-- to exit the engagement in order to be with the person you truly loved. I… wish only for your happiness, Josephine. Happiness to you both.” 

“Maker’s breath, I can’t believe I was almost beaten in a duel by someone this oblivious.” Lord Otranto looked a little unbalanced, though that could have been the missing epaulet. “I accepted the duel on the presumption that it was a trifling matter of pride. I am not here to stand in the way of real love.” He bowed. “Lady Josephine. House Otranto regretfully withdraws the terms of its betrothal. I wish you both happiness, if you can ever manage to get yourselves sorted.” His servants picked up both Cassandra’s borrowed rapier and his own and he left, bowing politely to Sera, Dorian, and Vivienne on the way past.

Cassandra looked after him in confusion, and was therefore the only person who didn’t see the realization cross Josephine’s face. It was one of the most incredible series of expressions Dorian had ever seen. She gathered herself enough to curtsy to Lord Otranto’s retreating back.

Sera patted Vivienne carefully on one shoulder pauldron. “Good on you, Vivvy.” She darted away before Vivienne could respond. 

“You do realize,” Josephine said slowly, “to whom Leliana was referring when she told you I was in love.” 

Cassandra shook her head. Dorian could see her shoulders tense, as if she were bracing against an oncoming blow. “I thought it might be someone from your youth, a school romance, kept alive through letters, or...” she trailed off, gesturing vaguely with her hands.

Josephine very carefully approached her, standing on her toes to whisper in Cassandra’s ear. 

“Oh,” Cassandra said softly. 

Now Josephine was blushing. “Is this... acceptable to you?” 

“I--” Cassandra cut off her own answer by leaning down and giving Josephine a kiss.


	18. The Drink

All of Skyhold wanted to toast to Josephine and Cassandra’s happiness. That’s what they got for being popular, Dorian supposed.

He himself felt slightly adrift in the unusually crowded tavern. He was shunted from table to table by people who were happy to drink with him, but only for so long. Eventually, he found a somewhat permanent spot among the Chargers, who were similarly tolerated by the rank and file of the Inquisition. Adaar may adore them, but her followers did not.

The evening was loud, and Dorian found himself charmed by the Fereldan enthusiasm, even if he was relegated to lingering at its edges. The Chargers certainly kept him entertained.

They were terrible singers. “No man can beat the Chargers, indeed,” Dorian muttered into his beer. “Not a single one of you can carry a tune. Not in a bucket, or a basket, or slung across your shoulders.”

“What do you know about my shoulders, ‘Vint?” Bull got the laugh out of them that Dorian had been fishing for and nudged him good-naturedly with one spectacularly solid elbow. “How heavy is this tune? Tall as you?”

“Does he really think he’s clever?” Dorian asked Krem. He had to do something to avoid letting his superior smirk turn into something less dignified.

“Don’t pull me into your flirting,” Krem groused. 

Harding showed up then, with ale for herself and a fresh bottle of wine for the table. The Charger’s boisterous greeting swallowed up anything Dorian was about to say, but he could feel that Bull was still watching him.

The wine circled the table, and didn’t make it all the way to Dorian, but he didn’t want to drink much more than he already had, anyway. His mind kept circling. Adaar and Blackwall toasted the new couple, and Dorian watched Adaar’s hand find Blackwall’s, quietly, clasping it as they sat side by side. Blackwall leaned up to whisper something in Adaar’s ear and she blushed, swatting at him playfully. They looked truly at peace. It baffled him.

“Krem,” Harding said as things started to wind down sometime after midnight. Krem had been dozing slightly, but jumped to attention at the sound of her voice. Dorian exchanged an amused glance with Bull. “My family is coming to Skyhold soon.”

“Oh?” Krem sounded a little strangled. “That’s exciting?”

“Yes! And I was hoping--” Dorian could see her blush, even in the low light of the tavern. Her freckles stood out sharply. “I was hoping you’d want to meet them? My father and mother, and my older brothers, and Contessa, of course.”

Krem looked paler by the moment, in direct opposition to Harding’s glowing cheeks. “Of course I want to meet them.” 

Harding looked suspicious, but didn’t press him. “I’m sure they’ll all love you,” she said sweetly. She did many things sweetly.

Krem nodded, and stood abruptly. “More drinks?” he asked the table at large, and then hurried away before anyone actually asked for anything.

Glances of the meaningful, silent type were exchanged among the Chargers present, but no one got up to follow him. Dalish started asking Harding about her family, in an obvious attempt to wipe the nervous, crestfallen look off her face.

Dorian took it upon himself to check on Krem. He excused himself, dropping a hand on Bull’s shoulder with a significant look of his own, and followed in Krem’s wake through the eddying crowd.

He caught him at the bar, leaning on his elbows and staring into a glass of whiskey. Cabot was good at providing the right drink for thinking, brooding or panicking silently, as long as you weren’t fussed about quality. This seemed like a silent panic sort of whiskey.

“One ‘Vint to another.” Dorian leaned on the bar next to him and accepted a small glass that looked vaguely similar to Krem’s. “I don’t think that she’s actually making any sort of marriage move. She hasn’t asked how to write to your parents, has she?”

Krem stared at him.

“Is that not how they do it, among the Soperati? Introduce the families and hope that the reigning matriarchs see enough advantage in a match to make it official? I only had one or two friends who actually met their spouse before the engagement, but I assumed that was how it worked.”

“That’s fucked up.”

Dorian shrugged. “I never claimed otherwise.”

“She wants me to meet the Contessa, though?” Krem rolled his glass between his palms. “I didn’t even know she was related to a Contessa.”

Dorian found himself shrugging again. “I only know the dwarves in Tevinter, but I suppose it’s not out of the question. The Harding family is fairly wealthy, I believe. But you’re Lieutenant Aclassi of the Bull’s Chargers! You’ve faced down giants, have you not? And Orlesians. Which are far worse. One fusty old woman should hold no fear for you.”

“Are you trying to give me a pep talk, Altus?”

“You could always charm the Contessa, steal her heart as well as young Lace’s.”

Krem leaned his head on the bar beside his arms. “Please stop talking.”

Dorian called Cabot over and bought them both another round. “Drink and be merry?” 

Krem accepted the gift with little prompting, and set up enough to clink his own glass against Dorian’s. “Why not? Tomorrow we could be dead.” They lifted their glasses and swallowed as one.


	19. The Kiss

The Hardings of Ferelden must have been notable indeed, since Josephine met their carriage at the gate. It was well-appointed, with wheels that looked far newer than the rest of the wood, sturdy and barely worn. Perhaps they were new specifically for this trip.

Krem’s shirt was new, specifically for this day. Dorian was glad to see him expanding his repertoire. The blue linen was so much nicer than his two other shirts, which were white and off-white. 

“The curtains are a nice touch,” Dorian observed as the carriage rolled to a stop. “Very mysterious.”

“I want to see the richest dwarves in Ferelden,” Bull grouched.

“Shut up,” Krem hissed at both of them. He’d bought a new hat too, and was clutching it in his hands.

“Why did you even buy that thing if you’re just gonna take it off?” Bull asked.

“Because it’s polite to take your hat off when you meet a Contessa,” Krem said in the tone of someone who’d pestered Vivienne for etiquette lessons. 

“Because he’s nervous, Bull. Don’t make the poor boy self-conscious about meeting a high-born lady who could make or break his young romance if he doesn’t please her.”

Krem punched him. Gently, of course, but Dorian was fairly certain his arm would be bruised for weeks. 

“Lace told me her grandad once stabbed a Vint who shorted him in a business deal and ate his spleen.” Krem sounded calm, until Dorian looked at his face and saw the slightly hysterical grin. The hat twisted further, its feather in danger of being crushed.

“Harding was messing with you, Krem,” Bull said calmly. Then, with a wink at Dorian he added, “Everyone knows the merchants guild only eats Free Marchers.” 

“I don’t know, Bull,” Dorian said. “I’ve heard surfacers of younger generations are trying to free themselves from the limitations of the old traditions.” 

“Stop scaring the poor kid. I’ve told you both plenty of times before, the merchant’s guild only cares about two things: money and marrying their children into a better caste.” Varric had joined them.

Krem looked pale, and possibly ready to bolt when a calloused hand reached up to clap him on the shoulder. “Good thing we’re not merchant’s guild, eh?” Ser Harding had his daughter’s eyes. Or she had his. He was casually dressed, with an air of relaxed cheer about him. 

Krem tried to laugh. It sounded a little strangled. 

Ser Harding patted him on the shoulder again. It required a bit of a reach. “Don’t worry son, I was just the same way the first time I met Lace’s grandmother.” 

Dorian was doing a terrible job of not laughing at the look on Krem’s face. He had apparently not found Ser Harding’s words to be a comfort. Judging by his expression, he had found it more akin to being hit by a board.

“And is this the young man you’ve been writing to us about?” Mistress Harding circled the carriage, daughter and Ambassador in tow. Slightly taller than her husband, she had half again as many freckles as Lace, and the muscled arms of an experienced archer.

Dorian heard the seams of the hat start to rip, but Krem collected himself and stretched out a hand. They nearly knocked heads when Krem attempted to bow over her hand at the same moment Mistress Harding pulled him in for a hug.

“I’m impressed that you kept her Ladyship out of the mud this whole way,” Lace told her father, as her mother chattered happily and did not release Krem from her embrace.

Krem looked over Mistress Harding’s head to Bull and Dorian, his face a silent plea for help. 

Dorian shrugged and watched. 

“She nearly leapt out the window five times,” Ser Harding said. “And that’s just this morning. We passed the Dennet farm the first day, and the _druffalo_ \--”

“Oh no, those poor things must have had such a fright. I don’t know what they ever did to offend her.”

“I’m surprised she’s stayed in the carriage this long.” Mistress Harding finally let Krem go. He staggered slightly. “She did fall asleep as we were coming across the bridge-- and what an impressive sight that is! The keystones must weigh a ton apiece! Do you know much about the construction of it, Krem darling?”

“No, ma’am.” Dorian fancied he could see Krem remembering and regretting the moment he’d derided Dorian’s book on architecture. Honestly, one never knew when one would need certain information.

He stepped in. “It’s an old Elven fortress, originally,” he told Mistress Harding, who turned to him with a bright expression. “But I believe the causeway was built in the Tower Age, by--”

“By Helferich, before he was exiled to the Anderfels for that business with the frieze, yes! Oh, I should have seen that on my own. Thank you, ser..?”

“Pavus. Dorian Pavus.” He bowed deeply to kiss the back of her hand. “Lord, if we’re being formal, but titles mean nothing before the towering mastery of the stonework here.”

Harding rolled her eyes at Dorian behind her mother’s back. In a day or two, Dorian would offer to share his architecture books with Krem again, and this time he wouldn’t get laughed at.

In the meantime, there were more introductions to be made.

The Contessa emerged, rounding the carriage at a sedate, almost regal pace. When Dorian had first pictured her, he had imagined a severe older noblewoman of the sort his mother invited to all her parties and secretly despised. Perhaps in old fashioned winter velvets with an understated, yet clearly expensive jewel glittering at her throat. Seeing her now, well, he could at least congratulate himself on not having been wrong about the jewel.

The well groomed mabari stood for a moment in the center of the courtyard, highlighted by the midday sun, then advanced on Krem at a gentle trot. He stood stock still as she circled him, sniffing him from all angles. Her ruby-studded collar glinted in a way that somehow managed to imply intense judgement.

Contessa’s inspection halted in front of Krem. She wagged her tail and then lunged. 

Krem keeled backwards, going ass first into the muddy grass, a hundred pounds of wriggling war dog on top of his chest. Contessa leaned down and bestowed her official blessing to Krem’s face in the form of a slobbery kiss.


	20. The Light

Dorian knocked cautiously on Josephine’s office door. It swung inward and an aide bustled out, nearly flattening him. He straightened his shirt and went in. Josephine was, predictably, scribbling furiously away, but set down her pen when he cleared his throat.

“Ah, Lord Dorian, I was hoping you’d be by.” She shuffled a page out of her desk and handed it to him. “I’d like your advice.”

“Naturally.” He looked at the paper. “Advice on books of poetry?”

“Yes.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “Particularly on which of these titles would be the most romantic. Not subtle, mind you. _Romantic_.”

“Well, if you were going for subtlety, the Rivaini are actually the best of this lot. But for brute force romance, Tevinter poets…” He trailed his finger down the list. “Oh, you’ve found _Carmenum di Amatus_.”

“You sound displeased. I’ve read some Antivan translations. I thought it was… rather racy… but it would be impossible for Cassandra to misinterpret.”

Dorian sighed. “It’s certainly that. But it’s not precisely _good_ poetry. And Trade translations are invariably preposterous. It’s almost always Fereldans and they’re always sticking articles in where they don’t belong. Nevarrans never use contractions when it’s appropriate, and Marchers are _too_ casual.”

Josephine smiled. “Not that, then?”

“Only if you promise me you’ll find a good translation. But you’re better off with an Antivan. Teratti has her merits.” He looked at the list again. “She’s not on here. I thought you would have had her at the top.”

“No, Teratti is…” Josephine blushed. “I have other… associations with those poems. I’d feel very odd reading them to Cassandra by candlelight.”

“I thought some of Teratti’s ‘her long dark locks’ descriptions sounded familiar,” Bull said, wandering through the door.

Josephine looked down at her desk as though pleading with it to swallow her.

Dorian waved Bull over and showed him Josephine’s list. “If you were trying to seduce a buttoned-up Chantry shieldmaiden, would you read her an awful Trade translation of _Carmenum_ or the already subpar pastoral metaphors of a true Fereldan?”

“What’s wrong with _Carmenum di Amatus?_ ” Bull wondered. “I always liked the ‘my body opens’ bits. Very ...evocative.”

Dorian groaned. “Not _that_ translation. It has _none_ of the nuance of the original-- not that there was much to begin with, but it uses the same phrases over and over again, and it’s very heavy handed with the religious metaphors-- actually, maybe it’s not the worst choice for this situation. Cassandra would probably love it.”

“But not you?” Bull asked, taking a seat on one of the armchairs. Josephine had gone back to her paperwork.

“No.” Dorian sat as well, emphatically. “No, it’s horrifically trite. ‘His lips on mine speak words not voiced.’ Who talks like that?”

“You, sometimes,” Josephine commented from the desk.

“Slander,” Dorian told her. “And the original is written in Ancient Tevene, though it’s only a few centuries old, so it’s likely not even all that accurate. Though the phrase ‘Contendet ad meum cum suavi’ is--”

“You know that off the top of your head?” Bull looked impressed.

“One line of poetry is hardly--”

“One line of _sexy_ poetry.” Bull smirked and leaned over the arm of the chair a little.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “That’s hardly the sexiest line of that poem, Bull.” 

Bull shrugged, now looking a little evasive. “I guess it depends on who you’re thinking about when you hear it.” 

“There are some redeemable poems in the second half of the book,” Dorian allowed, and ignored the expression on Bull’s face. “That’s not one of them.”

“What’s your favorite?” Bull asked.

Dorian pretended to think about it for longer than he needed to, careful with how he worded his translation. “I wait for you like a lonely house until you will see me again, and live in me. Until then my windows ache.” 

“Oh,” said Bull. “Yeah, that’s a good one.” 

Dorian avoided his eye. He stood abruptly, rather than fidget with a throw pillow. “Yes, I think that’s the one you should choose, Josephine.”

She looked up briefly as he opened the door. “I think I shall. Thank you, Dorian.” 

Bull was half a step behind him. Perhaps closer than was strictly casual. “And maybe a candle or two. I’ve heard romantic lighting can make a difference,” he added.

“It certainly... wouldn’t hurt to be less guarded with my affections,” Josephine said, looking at Bull. 

“Maybe,” Bull answered. “We’ll see.” He pulled the door shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Dorian's favorite poem that he "translates" is actually by Neruda)


	21. The Secret

“Psst.” 

Dorian turned around.

“Psst,” Harritt said again. He motioned at Dorian with a universal surreptitious gesture.

Dorian approached him cautiously. “Can I help you?” 

“Magisters can keep secrets, right? That’s a thing you do.”

“I’m not a magister, I’m--”

“Right, right, course. Can’t say that sort of thing around here. Got to keep up appearances.”

“I’m really not...never mind. Yes, I’m very secretive. What do you want?” 

“Honestly good at keeping your mouth shut? Actually sneaky?” Harritt’s glare seemed intended to intimidate him.

“Eminently so, my good man.” Dorian twirled his mustache, thinking it might help his case. 

“Right, well, I’m not having you lie, that’s for certain. You’re terrible at it.” 

Dorian sighed. “Do you even want my help?”

Harritt hesitated long enough for Dorian to begin to feel offended. “Yeah. I need you to-- quietly, without telling anyone _why_ \-- look at the stuff Adan’s doing and figure out what he needs. For his experiments and concoctions and whatnot.”

“Herbs, probably.”

“Not herbs, you daft--” Harritt remembered he was asking Dorian for a favor. “Herbs aren’t romantic. Like a flask holder, or new tongs or something.” 

Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tongs. You want to get him something romantic, and your first thought is _tongs_?”

“Or a new apron, or--look, I’m not asking for a critique here, am I? I like what I like and you like stupid stuff that’s useless. Will you help me or not?”

“May I ask why you came to me?”

“You’re a magis-- you’re a Vint. Vints are sneaky. And he won’t think you’re doing it for me.”

Dorian considered it. “Fine. But only if you fix my staff blade without spitting on it this time.”

Harritt shrugged. “If you don’t want it nice and shiny, less work for me anyways.”

Dorian stuck out his hand to shake, and Harritt took it. He only looked a little nervous, even. Dorian was very careful not to perform any blood magic on him. 

“To be clear, you want me to spy on Adan, and then secretly report back to tell you his needs.” 

“‘Course.” 

“That seems healthy.” 

Harritt raised an eyebrow in a way that told Dorian he had a fitting comeback for that statement, but was choosing not to share it out of the mercy of his heart. Dorian went to find Adan.

The infirmary Adaar had ordered be set up was busy as always, but the back room where the alchemists worked was not. Truthfully, Dorian thought everyone besides Clemence and Sera were too scared of Adan to trespass, but it worked out in his favor today. 

Adan barely noticed him come in, though he made no effort to enter quietly. A startled alchemist was a recipe for explosions. 

Dorian surveyed the desk, the walls, Adan himself. He had no idea what he was looking for.

“What’dya--” Adan turned around, his elbow knocking into a row of (blessedly empty) glass flasks. They tinkled ominously as they rolled across the floor. Dorian caught one as it skittered towards his foot and handed it back to Adan, who grunted his thanks. “Damn things get everywhere,” he muttered.

“Just wondering if you needed anything,” Dorian said innocently.

Adan’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Not useless bystanders. Either help me with this decoction or leave.”

Dorian found himself stepping towards the bubbling system of glass pipes. “I’m not exactly a healer.”

“Neither am I. Now stir this and keep a steady flame. And if you could magic up about sixteen extra feet of table space that’d be nice too.” 

“I’m a mage, not a miracle worker.” Dorian glanced around. “You could try organizing.”

“I heard different about the miracle working. Adaar hasn’t shut up about you since she came back from Recliffe. And this is fucking organized.” Adan gestured to the uncompromising vista of chaos that surrounded him with the hand not fiddling with concentrated deathroot extract. “Er, as organized as it can be. Given the space. Could do with a shelf or two, maybe. And it’s not like Clemence is doing any better.” The worktable he pointed to was clear and spotless, excepting a few sheafs of notes, copied out and neatly bound.

“Indeed.” Dorian chose not to argue, and planned instead.

He reported his findings to Harritt that evening, having escaped after his sixth hour of “volunteer” work, miraculously unsinged.

“Shelves…” Harritt mused.

“Or a binder? A good binder would go a long way towards protecting his notes.”

“‘snot romantic. Needs to be something I can make.”

“You can’t make a shelf?” Dorian asked.

“I was making shelves before you started growing that sorry excuse for a mustache, boy.”

“So what’s the issue, old man?” Harritt glowered at him. Dorian crossed his arms and waited patiently. “I got you your answer. He needs more space. You’re the craftsman.”

“Why don’t you just go back in time and ask the inquisitor to give him a bigger room, then?” 

“”That wouldn’t exactly be a romantic gift from you, now would it?”

“Hello, what’s going on in here? I thought we all agreed to never time travel again.” Adaar opened the door to the Undercroft.

Dorian turned to her. “Ser Harritt here has pressed me into service helping--”

“You _said_ you could keep your mouth shut,” Harritt growled.

“You’re the one who told me I was a terrible liar,” Dorian said blithely. “That’s not true, you know. I can lie quite well. But she’s the _Inquisitor_ , you see. No one can keep a secret from her forever.”

Harritt shrugged. “True.” 

Adaar looked slightly uncomfortable. “This isn’t about time travel, is it? Or secret identities? I’m afraid I’m not very enthusiastic about either of those right now. Or maybe ever. Actually, how about we never do those?” 

“It’s about finding a present for Adan,” Harritt grumbled, a bit pink behind his mustache. “You saw the hammer he gave me, your worship. I need to come up with something even better.”

“Is that really how romance works?” Dorian asked no one in particular. “One-upmanship?”

“Absolutely,” Adaar answered, then she frowned. “Isn’t that what you’re doing with Bull?”

“That isn’t ‘what I’m doing’ with anyone, especially not--” Dorian squawked, but Adaar had already turned her attention back to Harritt, frowning slightly in concentration. 

“It _is_ a great hammer,” she said. “What if you got him something really romantic? Like a new pair of tongs.”

“No,” Dorian said. “No tongs. It’s not-- it’s too much like a hammer, in any case. Not original.”

“Ugh,” said Harritt. “You’re right.” He spat on the ground, presumably to get the taste of admitting it out of his mouth. 

“He told me what he needs,” Dorian reiterated. “He needs _space_. He needs some way to make the space he has more efficient.”

“If he needs efficiency, I could try and find another tranquil to help out. Clemence is pretty bloody...” Harritt trailed off under Adaar’s judgmental gaze. “...Or something else.”

“Filing cabinet?” she suggested after a slightly-strained minute.

“Ugh, he doesn’t need more places to stick his bloody papers. He loses them enough already. If there were a filing cabinet for bottles and jars, now, that’d be--” Harritt looked as if he’d had an epiphany. “Pardon me, your worship. Altus.” He dashed off to one of the work tables and began scribbling.

“You remembered,” Dorian said, touched. He was thoroughly ignored.

“Well, Dorian, we’ve been dismissed.” Adaar held the door open for him, and led him across the the throne room to her quarters.

Dorian had the acute sensation of being led into a trap, especially as she sat him down by her fire and poured him a glass of halfway decent wine. He had not been expecting an inquisition. “I’ve been wondering,” she said, “is there anything _you_ might find useful? You know, like a gift?” 

“Gifts aren’t _useful,_ ” Dorian said. “Ideally, they’re beautiful and deeply impractical.”

“Like… good winter boots?” she guessed. “Or a horse?” 

Dorian sighed. Sometimes he forgot how Qunari the Inquisitor could be. “No. More like jewelry, or...” he cringed. “Or a griffon feather, were I the sort of person interested in that kind of thing.”

Adaar tapped her chin, thinking. “So if someone got you dangly feather earrings, would that make you happy?”

“ _No._ ” He squinted at her. “May I ask why we’re having this painfully literal conversation?”

“I uh, wanted...advice. You know, for Bu--Blackwall and...” Adaar trailed off. “More wine?” 

“I am begging you,” Dorian said, holding out his glass.


	22. The Way

Harritt showed Dorian his contraption three days later. Box-like, it opened up into racks perfect for holding the sorts of alchemical vials Adan used. It was, all things considered, quite an impressive feat of craftsmanship. If Dorian hadn’t known Harritt as he did, he would have assumed the man had enchanted some sort of pocket dimension into the thing. 

“I suppose it’ll do,” Dorian told him. Harritt beamed.

Dorian had a gift of his own to deliver. Keeping his prior conversation with Adaar in mind, he had attempted to strike a balance between the kind of utilitarian nonsense Adaar would want, and the aesthetic splendor that was a _proper_ gift. He thought he’d done rather well. 

His copy of _The Way of the Necromancer_ was old, dog-eared and heavily annotated in his own hand, and in Livia’s, whose it had been before him. It was bound in sturdy leather-- unadorned dragon scale, with silverite protecting its corners and spine. He’d seen copies bound in human flesh, but that had never appealed to him. It cracked too easily, for one thing. Dorian had enough problems maintaining his own skincare routine, thank you very much. 

Dorian knew it was an excellent gift and that Adaar would love it, even if Bull had looked a little queasy at the thought. He hadn’t been appropriately enthusiastic about the idea, and was fired from his temporary gift-advising position. Dorian had still compensated him for his time, by way of several increasingly throat-scorching drinks.

The book was now wrapped carefully in soft velvet, and cradled in Dorian’s arms like an infant as he searched for its new owner. 

He found her in the stables, which was honestly the first place he should have looked. She hopped off Blackwall’s workbench as soon as he came in, and tried to look like she hadn’t been swinging her legs and listening to his stories like a besotted schoolgirl while he worked. 

“Dorian.” Blackwall nodded at him, and returned to tapping away at the griffon, or whatever sort of creature the lump of wood would eventually become. Dorian thought it seemed like a friendlier, more contented sort of dismissive nod than the kind that used to pass between them. 

Adaar, far happier, hugged him. Dorian held the book carefully so that neither it nor its velvet wrapping could be crushed. This, naturally, made for an awkward hug, but Adaar didn’t seem to mind. Despite the looming end of the world, there wasn’t much that seemed to annoy her these days.

“What’s this?” She peered at the book when he held it out to her.

“ _The Way of the Necromancer,_ ” Dorian answered. “This was my mentor’s guidebook before it was mine and I think her mentor’s before it was hers, and I don't mean to say I think of myself as a-- a-- teacher, or any of that nonsense, quite the opposite. I simply wanted you to have-- I wanted to let you know you were important. To me, I mean. Obviously, you’re quite important to Thedas. And I… care. For you, and your happiness.”

Adaar took the book with gratifying care, and unwrapped it gently. “Thank you,” she said softly. 

“Necromancy?” Now Blackwall had looked up from his carving. “Is that… wise?”

Dorian shrugged, but it was Adaar who answered. “I don’t think picking a specialization is about wisdom, exactly. You just are what you are, and one day you realize it.” 

“There’s quite a bit of dedication and training involved,” Dorian added, “but yes.”

Blackwall came over and looked at the book with an expression of mild unease. “I just--” he swallowed back whatever he was going to say. “It’s different, I think, than what I was expecting.” 

“Expecting from what?” Adaar hadn’t bristled in quite the same way Dorian had. “From the book? It does look a lot more like a diary and less like _The Way_ than I was expecting. A fancy diary,” she assured Dorian, as if that was what had annoyed him.

Blackwall coughed. “From you. You’re usually more... direct. Fire, you know? Not corpses.” He waved his hands in a decent approximation of Adaar summoning a fireball.

Adaar smiled. “It gives things purpose where they had none before. I like that.” 

Blackwall grunted, which more agreement than Dorian had ever expected from him.

“Really, Dorian, it is lovely.” Adaar leafed through the pages carefully. “How old were you when you got this? Your handwriting’s even worse now.”

“Thank you,” Dorian told her dryly.

“No, really, what does this even say?” She squinted at the book. “Note to self: Do not include extraneous combustibles. Newt eyes far too flammable-- and then this looks like a name in a heart?”

“No it’s not,” Dorian said quickly.

Blackwall peered over Adaar’s elbow. “It is. Rill-ay-in-us? And two more hearts after it. Perhaps this is a good book after all.” 

Adaar giggled. “I’m sure it will be very educational.”

“I hope it will bring you great joy,” Dorian said dryly, and made his escape, leaving Adaar and Blackwall laughing together behind him.


	23. The Partner

“Have you received my gift yet, darling?” Vivienne smirked at Dorian over the rim of her teacup.

“If I had, I’m sure I would have mentioned it to you,” Dorian said. “I’m sure it’s delightfully subtle in its cruelty.” 

“It’s rather unmistakably large,” Vivienne told him. “I’m uncertain as to the time of its arrival, but I’m sure you’ll know it when you see it.” 

She sipped at her tea with an expression of supreme unconcern as he squinted at her, trying to figure out her game.

“Is it a terribly embarrassing gift then?”

Vivienne’s eyebrows rose. “This is not Tevinter, darling. Nor is it Halamshiral. You might consider that people occasionally give one another things simply because they want to.”

“People, certainly. But us?”

The look Vivienne gave Dorian reminded him of how Cole had spoken to her about the silkworms. It wasn’t pity, exactly. Perhaps understanding. “Please don’t faint, dear, but it’s entirely possible that we _are_ people.”

“You’re getting soft in your old age, I’m afraid.”

She must have been in a good mood, because all that got was a laugh and an airy wave of her hand. “Can you really say that when you’re wearing those boots? The heels are dreadfully low.”

Dorian looked at his shoes. “I’m already taller than most of the humans here,” he said.

“Taller heels, darling. It’s a must.”

Dorian shrugged and took his leave to go change into more fashionable clothes. 

He spent the rest of the day on the lookout for this mysterious gift. 

If anyone knew Vivienne's plans, Dorian figured, it would be Bull. And even if he didn’t, an afternoon in his company would hardly be the worst thing Dorian could imagine. Especially since he was feeling very confident in his new robes. The heels were a good touch, but he’d go back to the Fade before he admitted that to Vivienne.

Unfortunately, the Iron Bull was nowhere to be found. Not a single Charger loafed about the training ring or tavern. Disappointed, Dorian returned to his library.

Helisma interrupted him after an less than an hour buried in his books. “Ser Pavus, what time will you be retiring for your evening meal?”

“I’m not sure I’m leaving today, actually. I have a lot of work to get through.”

“That is not acceptable.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You are required to vacate the premises for an evening meal. It is necessary.”

Dorian stared at her. “It… is?”

“Yes.” She nodded once, emphatic.

He glanced around the library looking for-- he had no idea what. “I suppose I will go to the tavern after sixth bell, but I was planning on returning. At nine, if that is… acceptable?” 

Helisma considered this. “Yes. That is sufficient time.”

“Time for what?” She was already walking away. “Helisma! Sufficient time for _what_? You’re not rearranging my books, are you?”

“I am told that informing you would defeat the inherent purpose of a surprise.” She left. 

Whatever Dorian had thought his “gift” might be, a surprise was far worse. But he had, apparently, given Helisma his word. He would go to the tavern, and spend three hours imagining more and more horrifying possibilities of what his “surprise” might be.

Worst of all, the tavern was practically empty. Bull was gone from his usual chair, the Chargers were elsewhere, he could hear Sera snoring up in her room, even Maryden had left. It was just Dorian and Cabot. 

“Don’t make so much eye contact,” Cabot told him after a few minutes. “It’s getting weird.” 

Dorian tried to look somewhere other than the bar for his remaining... hour. 

“I’m just gonna be in the back room... polishing stuff. Or something,” Cabot announced uncomfortably after Dorian once again failed to not stare at him. 

Dorian shrugged and refilled his own tankard once Cabot shut the door, neglecting to charge himself. He settled into a corner booth and waited, nursing his ale until the ninth bell. 

He rushed back across the courtyard and through the great hall. At the bottom of the winding library stairs, he paused, listening. There was no movement above him, just the flicker of candlelight on the wall. 

Unaccountably nervous, he climbed the stairs. His books were undisturbed, the birds were quiet, and the Iron Bull was standing by his table, looking at the tomes on a shelf. He looked up when Dorian cleared his throat.

“I was told you wanted something impractical and pretty, so I uh, here I am.” Bull had on a shirt. An actual shirt, one it was clear Vivienne had picked out for him. He looked nearly as nervous as Dorian felt. 

“Impractical I’ll grant you. Are we certain you’re really the most beautiful thing in the room?” 

“Nah.” Bull grinned. “That’s you.”

Dorian was sure he had a retort for that, but it didn’t seem very important.

Bull stepped towards him. “Do you wanna dance?”

“Since when do you know how to dance? You made such a stink about it at the Winter Palace.”

Bull grinned. “Ma’am’s been giving me lessons.”

”Ah.” His gift was, indeed, quite large. Dorian was glad he’d kept the taller heels.

Bull’s hand, which had been outstretched, dropped to his side. “It’s fine if you don’t want to. I can just--” 

“No,” Dorian said quickly, “I mean, yes, I do want to. I would-- I would like that.” 

“Oh,” Bull said. “That’s uh, that’s good then.”

“Maker’s breath.” Dorian grabbed Bull’s hand and put it on his shoulder. He paused. “Unless Vivienne taught you how to lead?”

“No, this feels right. I mean, uh--” Bull cleared his throat. “This is what she taught me.”

Dorian put a hand on his waist and smiled up at him. Bull, in all his shirted glory, smiled back.

“Do you happen to have any music?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah.” He took his hand off of Dorian’s shoulder and dug a runestone out of his pocket. The other hand stayed wrapped around Dorian’s fingers, lifted slightly like they were still about to step onto a dance floor. “Dagna says you’ll know how to make it work.”

It was a simple spell. Dorian plucked it out of Bull’s hand. He set it on the table as the soft sound of a violin swelled from the stone and filled the alcove. 

“Okay,” Bull said, frowning in concentration, “I’m going to try not to step on your feet, I really am. But no promises.”

Dorian moved forward on the beat. Bull stumbled slightly, but caught up. After a couple of false starts, they began to move more fluidly, as long as they kept to a very basic waltz. Dorian had missed dancing.

He attempted a half turn, and Bull nearly crushed his toes. “If you look at me and don’t stare at your feet the whole time, it’ll be easier.” 

“Trust me, Vint, I’m only looking at you.” He was. Bull leaned forward slightly, the hand on Dorian’s shoulder drifting to cup the back of his head. Dorian allowed himself to be pulled in, tilting his face towards Bull.

Above them, a raven squawked. Dorian jumped, jerking away. 

Bull chuckled. “I asked Red about moving them and she told me I was welcome to _try_.”

“It went poorly?” Dorian was slightly breathless. 

Bull shook his head. “Too scared to try.” 

The song in the runestone ended, and another began, slightly faster.

Bull took Dorian’s hand again, and put the other on Dorian’s waist. “Wanna try again? Even fewer promises about your toes this time though.”

“I do.” Dorian bit his lip, and corrected Bull’s grip with some reluctance. “Bull, you said I was leading here, correct?” 

Bull nodded and rubbed his thumb across the back of Dorian’s hand. “I haven’t got a clue how to waltz.”

“Then perhaps you ought to let me take charge,” Dorian said, and reached up to pull Bull in for a proper kiss.


	24. The Baby

Dorian had never seen Backwall in the library. There were books in the stables, and Dorian was theoretically aware that Blackwall must read them, but he had never actually been present in Dorian’s space in such a way. He stood awkwardly beside the railing, as if he didn’t want to actually intrude on Dorian’s alcove. 

Blackwall cleared his throat. Dorian waited fifteen seconds before he looked up from the book he hadn’t been reading. “Can I help you?” He asked. 

“Er, yes, actually. If you could come down to the stables I have...” Dorian stared at him. “Look, just do it?” 

“It’s freezing outside,” Dorian informed him, making a show of picking his book back up. 

“It’s always freezing outside. Come anyways.” Blackwall crossed his arms, clearly refusing to move until Dorian complied. 

With a heavy sigh, Dorian put his book down and followed him to the stables, grabbing his heavy cloak on the way. 

It was, in a very objective sense, freezing. There had been frost on the windows and ice in his washbasin that morning. He’d planned on spending the day inside near a fire, and perhaps ending it with a cup of warm mulled wine and in bed with a warmer Tal Vashoth. This thought, of course, brought utterly useless heat to Dorian’s cheeks.

He pulled the hood of his cloak up to keep his ears warm and blew on his hands with a little bit of magic. Blackwall seemed entirely unconcerned. He wasn’t even wearing any sort of hat. Maybe his beard functioned as some sort of insulation.

Dorian followed him to the stables, curiosity thoroughly piqued. The cold air stopped at the doors, the horses and people working inside the building were better than a dwarven furnace for keeping off the chill. Blackwall motioned him up the stairs.

He knelt beside a hay bale in the corner of the loft. Dorian crossed the creaking boards to see what held his interest.

Curled in an apple crate, cushioned by an old saddle blanket, one of the stable cats blinked up at him with sleepy curiosity. Nestled against her stomach were four kittens, mewing softly. Blackwall lifted one carefully and handed it to Dorian. Disturbed, the other kittens woke as well.

Dorian, suddenly paralyzed by terror, clutched the little gray tabby in his palms, holding it as he might scoop water from a washbasin. It blinked up at him disapprovingly with huge yellow eyes. “What do-- How do I--?”

Blackwall rolled his eyes and corrected Dorian’s hold on the cat, who stopped glaring at him once it was properly supported. It licked his thumb with its impossibly tiny, impossibly pink tongue. Dorian remained frozen.

“We haven’t named them yet, but I thought--” Blackwall coughed, “Seems like the sort of thing you should have, a cat. Sit on your books, warm your feet.”

Dorian stroked its head with a careful finger, and it closed its eyes to lean into the touch. One of its siblings hopped out of the box and sniffed Blackwall’s knee. He scratched it behind its ear and it purred happily.

“They’re about six weeks old,” Blackwall continued, though Dorian was barely listening. “Old enough to wean, if you like her.”

Dorian looked up at him. “You mean, to take her home? You’re giving me a cat?”

Blackwall shrugged. “There’s enough in the barn and kitchens already,” he said gruffly. “No harm having one in the library too.”

The kitten nuzzled at his hand, and Dorian started petting her again, but kept staring at Blackwall. The Marcher flushed a little under his beard, like Dorian was the one embarrassing him.

Before Dorian was able to formulate a response, Sera charged up the stairs. The kittens startled a little at the noise, but calmed quickly as Sera crouched down beside Blackwall. The kitten who had been climbing Blackwall’s leg hopped into her lap. The other two peeked curiously over the edge of the box.

“They’re up here!” she called down the stairs, and Bull followed her up.

Dorian nodded to both of them, hands still occupied with kitten.

Bull sat on the hay bale next to Dorian and used a single finger to stroke the kitten under her chin. Her purr made her tiny body seem to buzz. “She’s so _soft_ ,” Dorian told him. Bull smiled.

“Well yeah,” Sera said. “She’s a kitten. Small and soft is sort of what they do. Also parp.”

“I had no idea they were so soft,” Dorian said quietly.

“Vints aren’t too big on cats,” Bull said when Sera started giggling. “You ever held a kitten before, big guy?”

“No,” Dorian admitted. His fear of breaking her was swiftly morphing into utter enchantment. He could feel himself becoming besotted.

She mewed, squeaky and small, and what small bits of Dorian’s heart hadn’t melted were swept away. 

“Never?” Sera asked, incredulous.

Dorian shook his head, unreasonably embarrassed. Blackwall looked a little thunderstruck by the idea that someone could spend thirty years without picking up a kitten. Dorian glanced at Bull and then quickly away. He was smiling too much.

“You really ought to take her,” Blackwall said. 

Regretfully, Dorian began, “I don’t really know how to care for a--” 

“I’ll help you,” Bull said quickly. Then, “they, uh, they teach you to work with animals and stuff, under the Qun. You know, in case you show promise as a Tamassran or a shepherd or something.” 

Dorian saw Sera elbow Blackwall and smirk out of the corner of his eye, but he was too busy with the kitten, who was sniffing her way up his arm, to care. She required his full attention.

“You gonna name her anything?” Sera asked.

Dorian considered the kitten--his kitten. “Amidora,” he announced at last. 

“Amy,” said Sera. “I like it.”


	25. The Hand

Wintersend was upon them. Dorian had not realized how unprepared he’d been for his first Wintersend in the South. The day began with _carols_. He wasn’t actually a curmudgeon, but being woken up by someone banging on his door and shouting about Andraste’s Mabari was not a pleasant start to the day.

“They’re just trying to include you,” Bull told him as he sulked over his mug of hot cider in the tavern. All of his usual favorite drinks had disappeared, replaced by seasonal concoctions, mostly apple-based, a few with actual _pumpkin_ inside. Bull was sipping at one such atrocity, taking breaks to swirl it with a cinnamon stick. 

“Why do Southerners like cinnamon but not cocoa?” Dorian asked in an effort to change the subject.

Bull shrugged. “Southerners don’t know what’s good for them.” 

“Right,” They looked up to see Harritt addressing the tavern at large, flushing bright red and wearing what Dorian presumed to be his best tunic. It was at least neither plaid nor singed at the edges. He actually did look quite handsome. “Right,” he repeated when everyone was looking at him. “Come outside if you want to see it. Or don’t. It’s still happening. But we’d appreciate it. I think.” 

Dorian and Bull glanced at each other and abandoned their drinks.

They followed Adan to the garden, where a decent crowd had already gathered. Bull headed toward an alcove a little ways away from the center of attention.

“Don’t want my horns blocking anyone’s view,” he murmured to Dorian.

“View of what?” Dorian asked. Bull grinned and refused to reply.

“Wha’s going on?” Sera asked from beside him. “Someone getting hitched?” 

“Surely not,” Dorian said. “They would have given us far more warning. There’s invitations, and plans, and catering and...” even as he spoke Dorian became less and less certain that this was not precisely the sort of preposterously straightforward and Fereldan thing Harritt and Adan would do. 

“And Revered Mothers?” Bull nodded towards Mother Giselle, who was standing nearby, hat and all, looking quite stressed. Dorian had never seen her fuss with her raiments before. 

She cleared her throat several times before anyone seemed to hear her.

Adan, who had removed all aprons, gloves and facemasks for the event, was the one to finally quiet the crowd, using his usual grace and aplomb. “Shut it you lot, we’re about to get married.”

The ceremony itself was brief. Mother Giselle spoke a few words about faith and commitment that even Dorian found touching. Dagna appeared from one of the many doorways, holding a small box, open so that its contents glinted in the sun. 

“The rings symbolize--” Mother Giselle began, but Harritt cleared his throat. “Er, may I, Mother? If I could say something.” 

“Of course,” she said. 

“Right.” Harritt squared his shoulders. Dorian wasn’t sure he’d really expected to be allowed to speak. He didn’t seem prepared. His eyes swept over the crowd, meeting Dorian’s gaze briefly. Then he turned, and spoke only to Adan.

“I always planned on making these rings with my family hammer,” he said. “It was stupid, but it was all I had left of them. We’ve lost plenty of things, I think, in our lives. I never expected that to be one of the hardest. But--” he swallowed hard and soldiered on. “It was nothing to finding out I could have lost you. I--” Harritt cleared his throat. “--I made these rings with the hammer that you gave me. I give you my future with them. No matter what gets lost.”

Adan took Harritt’s hands in his, tears decorating both their beards. “My life and future are yours,” he answered. 

Mother Giselle had clearly been expecting slightly different vows, but she pronounced them wed all the same, and the gardens filled with cheers as Adan pulled Harritt in for a kiss. 

Over the course of the afternoon, it became increasingly clear to Dorian that Josephine either _was_ a Seer, or she had one in her employ. No one, not even Lady Ambassador Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva, could simply fabricate an entire wedding feast, complete with a cake, on half an hour’s notice. It simply could not be done. There weren’t even any cooks; they’d all been given the day off for Wintersend. 

Still, there a feast was, being brought out platter by platter and set onto benches in the garden. Josephine looked a bit mischievous, but not even slightly rattled. In fact, she seemed to be dividing her time quite masterfully between directing the food placement and standing on her toes to whisper... well, Dorian certainly didn’t know _what_ she was whispering, into Cassandra’s ear. Cassandra, meanwhile, was blushing furiously. 

“This is usual?” Dorian whispered to Sera when she dropped onto the bench next to him with a plate full of tiny pumpkin pies. “People just… get married? All at once?”

She shoved him with her shoulder. “Don’t you go getting any ideas, prisspants.”

“I wasn’t!” Dorian protested, aghast. “It’s just all so sudden, and all this food…”

"Wintersend is always a party. And if it weren’t Harrit ‘n Adan, it woulda been somebody else.” She shrugged and stuffed a pie in her mouth. “Someone _always_ gets married at Wintersend.”

Dorian brushed off the crumbs she’d spewed on him. “Surely there’d be some competition.”

“Sure,” she agreed. “Just wait and see.”

Dorian frowned. “There have been entirely too many surprises today, thank you.”

Sera ignored him and hopped up on the bench to wave at Bull, who seemed to be in negotiations with Contessa for the return of Krem’s hat. It was hopeless, Dorian thought, now thoroughly chewed and drooled upon. “I found you some little pies!” she shouted across the hall. “And a Vint!”

“Are they pumpkin?” Bull asked when he battled his way across the room to them, Dagna in tow.

Sera grinned. “‘course. Push over, Dorian. Widdle’s here now.”

It was cosy for all four of them to be on the bench. Dagna wound up more or less on top of Sera, and Dorian had no issue leaning against Bull for support.

“Varric’s taking bets, you know,” said Dagna. “Who d’you think’s next, Lady Adaar or Krem?”

“To be married?” Dorian asked. “Our Lady Inquisitor.”

“Eh,” Bull said with a frown. “Just first steps? Harding might move fastest. She was over by the punch looking starry-eyed last time I saw her.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Fereldans.”

Adaar, who had been behind them for Maker only knew how long, cleared her throat. “Well, we’re going to make a formal announcement later, but Blackwall and I are going to get married soon as well. Maybe in the summer. I always thought a summer wedding would be nice,” she said, blushing. 

“You owe me at least three drinks,” Dorian told Bull triumphantly.

“We never actually agreed on stakes.”

“I’ll take my payment later, then,” Dorian said. “I’m flexible.”

Sera laughed so hard she almost fell off the bench.

Dorian stayed arm in arm with Bull the entire afternoon, dancing badly and eating well. They left a little after sundown, though torches had been ordered and the party would surely go on for hours yet.

They made their way across the castle, stopping to kiss whenever the fancy struck them. Back in his chambers, Dorian sighed with contentment, his breath disturbing the steam on his cup of mulled wine. He curled further into Bull, as the two of them looked into the fire. Amy unsheathed her claws and scaled Dorian’s leg. He winced, but lifted a hand to pet her when she curled up on his thigh. Bull reached forwards, and Dorian gave him his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Donare, Indulgere, Spondere -- to give a gift, to give a kindness, to give a hand (in love or marriage) 
> 
> We did it, you guys! It's finished! Happy Advent fic 2016! We hope you guys have had as much fun reading as we have had writing for you. Merry Christmas and happy Hannukah and lots of love from Team AU. ❤  
> [Acheesecakewrites](http://acheesecakewrites.tumblr.com)  
> [Uniqueinalltheworld](http://eugenideswalksintoabar.tumblr.com)


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